


Before the World Was Made

by daftfear



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, Language, M/M, magical bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-02-18 16:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 42,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2354237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daftfear/pseuds/daftfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco has done everything in his power to leave the past behind him. He’s established himself a successful business and built a reputation around the quality of his work and the breadth of his knowledge. But when aurors show up at his shop one afternoon, seeking his expertise on a peculiar item of questionable origins, they completely overthrow the precarious balance in Draco’s life. Trust Potter to bring danger and destruction in his wake, along with a painful reminder of all the things Draco is trying to forget. </p>
<p>[Bonding!fic. Rating will eventually be NC-17, but this chapter is PG.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is the result of a prompt request I made. It is the amalgamation of the prompts given to me by [snugglemint](http://snugglemint.livejournal.com) and the leftover prompts from Smoochfest 2013. The word prompts used in this chapter are peppermint, umbrella, apothecary, and jeweller. The title is taken from the poem by W.B. Yeats. Thanks to [snugglemint](http://snugglemint.livejournal.com) and [dysonrules](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dysonrules/pseuds/dysonrules) for these prompt ideas! Although now it’s turned itself into a chaptered fic instead of a oneshot, like I planned, but whatever. Hope you enjoy! Please let me know if you do! :)

The air inside the apothecary was heavy with humidity. The scents of dried herbs, pickled animal parts, and heated pewter assaulted his senses, and the usual fog of conflicting potion steam clouded his head. With a weak sneeze and the tinkle of a bell, Draco let the door close behind him. Rain pattered against the windowpanes, but it was impossible to tell by looking through the foggy glass. 

The umbrella charm Draco cast cancelled itself upon entering, but he half-wondered if it might have been useful. Perhaps that kind of magic could be turned to keep the smells and mists of the apothecary at bay. 

“Hullo, Draco,” the old shopkeeper, a wizened witch named Gretel, greeted him, as always. “What have you need for this time?”

The wrinkles of her face made her look like a walnut with hair, thinning her eyes to slits and her mouth to a thatched line. The hair on her head fanned out about her like fine, white bolts of lightning meant to escape her skull, and the robes she wore were always threadbare, brown and black with no aesthetic. They were robes meant for practicality.

Once, Draco might have sneered at her, if not in person then in his head, but she was kind to him. She welcomed him without judgment, and Draco loved her for it, though he could not put that feeling into words.

“Good morning, Gretel,” he answered with a gentle nod. “I need some more dragon’s blood. Three bottles should do. And some lavender as well.”

“That’s a lot of dragon’s blood you’ve been needing,” she said, walking out from behind the counter to collect the bottles. There was no suspicion in her voice, only curiosity.

Draco studied a jar of frog tongues on sale. 

“The project I’m working on is practically hemorrhaging—quite literally,” he said, picking up the bottle to weigh it in his hands. “Client insisted on true dragonstones, which of course are impossible. It’s not like Dragon Keepers are forging them anymore. The only ones in existence belong to the Royal Wizarding Family of Macedonia, and I don’t imagine they’re interested in selling. Only option is to manufacture one, and I need dragon’s blood for that. Problem is infusing diamonds with dragon’s blood is tricky business, and if the measurements are off by even an iota, the spells won’t take and the stones start to bleed. It’s a sodding nightmare.”

With a knowing hum, Gretel placed three bottles of dragon’s blood on the counter and tied a small packet of lavender with a string. “Will you be taking the frog tongues too, then, dear?” 

Draco shook his head and replaced them in the display. “No, I haven’t used them in ages. Just reminiscing.” 

“Ten galleons, four sickles, then,” she said, packaging his purchased. Trying to ignore the pang in his gut, Draco pulled out the coins and placed them in her hand. 

“It would be cheaper to slay my own dragons,” he said, and Gretel laughed. He took the package from her carefully, balancing it in one hand as he slipped the pouch of coins away into his robes. “Slow season for sales, though, autumn. “

“Say, looks like you might have some customers to change that.” 

Draco turned but saw only the fogged glass of the windows. Adjusting the package to hold it in the crook of his elbow, he went to the window and wiped away a circle of condensation. Sure enough, there were several people standing just outside his shop.

“Cheers, Gretel!” he said, wondering how she could see through those windows. He cast the umbrella charm a half-second too late and felt the cool September rain splatter his face. Cursing the little dark circles now peppering his sky-grey robes, Draco hurried to find three people in front of his doorway, all dressed in brown cloaks with purple insignia. 

Aurors.

“Good afternoon,” Draco said, stopping himself before saying ‘gentlemen’ when he noticed one was a woman. “Can I help you?”

They all turned to him. The woman was of average height with strawberry blond hair tied in a neat chignon. Her eyes sparkled like amber, but her pinched face detracted from the brightness of them. Next to her was a man Draco had hoped not to see for a long time. 

“Hello, Malfoy,” Longbottom said, his tone cool but not icy. He’d grown older since Draco had last seen him, and not in the way Draco might have expected. As though the years of his life had rushed to paint themselves beneath his eyes, Longbottom wore the mask of a man ten years his senior. Draco had heard gossip that Longbottom was leaving the Aurors soon—taking a job at Hogwarts—but until now he hadn’t believed it. 

Draco nodded to them both, his eyes averting from Longbottom as quickly as was proper to search out the third figure standing just behind them. Hidden underneath an actual umbrella, the man’s head was mostly obscured, and he seemed to be talking into his hand.

“No, just hand her the phone,” the man was saying, “I don’t have time to explain it now. Just let her hang up—hello? Hello?” A grumble and half a laugh. “Guess he figured it out then.”

Tilting the umbrella aside, the man turned to Draco, and for a moment, nothing moved.

“Hullo, Draco,” Harry Potter said, the slightest hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips. 

His throat dry, Draco managed, “Potter. What can I do for the Auror Department today?”

“Er—mind letting us in? Only it’s raining kneazles and crups,” Potter said, and Draco jerked into motion, the bottles of dragon’s blood clinking together in the crook of his arm. 

He pressed his wand-tip to the door handle and waited for the wards to scan his magical and biological signatures. After a moment, a soft chime tinkled inside Draco’s head, and he swung the door open, allowing them all through.

“Top of the line security you’ve got,” Potter said, and Draco thought he must have imagined that Potter sounded impressed. 

“Standard for anyone in my trade,” Draco assured him, following them in and cancelling his umbrella charm. Trying not to seem rushed, Draco made his way behind the crystal counters and placed his purchases in the lower cupboard. He supposed the Greengrasses’ dragonstones would have to wait.

“What exactly is it you do, Malfoy?” Longbottom asked. Draco studied him a moment, wondering what, precisely had aged him so quickly but hadn’t affected anyone else. Potter showed none of the same lines, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. There was no weariness in his face. In fact, Potter looked healthier than Draco had ever seen him.

His green eyes were veritably dancing with life behind his spectacles—same ones as ever—and the angles of his face spoke of laughter and liberation. But Draco didn’t allow himself to dwell on it long.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Draco said, trying not to make a snappy retort. It’s written on the bloody shop window, you nitwit. “All my licenses went through official Ministry channels. They are all up to date. I can—”

“What we’re after is whether you make your own jewellery or not,” Potter clarified.

Turning his attention back to Potter, Draco found the boy who’d so long been his rival staring back at him, green eyes shining brighter than all the emeralds in Draco’s cases. Were they mocking him? What was this game they were playing?

“I design and craft my own fine jewellery, yes,” Draco said, slipping easily back into familiar patterns. “I am also a purveyor of priceless antiques. I trade with only the most reputable dealers of precious stones and metals. Only the best will do for my clientele, you see.” Seeing the female Auror lean over to scrutinize one of his collections, he added, “a bit rich for Auror department salary, I’m afraid. If you’re in the market, perhaps you’d like to try the second-hand shop down the road.” With an added glance at Potter, he said, “gold and gaudy, it’s a bit more your style.”

And right before his eyes, Potter smiled.

“We’re looking for an expert,” he said, leaning against the counter toward Draco. The line of his body spelled out a taunt, but Draco couldn’t read it. “I told them if anyone in Diagon Alley knows something about artifacts that are prettier than they are powerful, it’d be you.” Potter leaned back and cocked his eyebrows. “Fancy a look?”

He pulled out a small parcel wrapped in soft cloth and held it out. Draco didn’t move, staring only at Potter’s face. They stared at each other for a time Draco might have thought was hours, and finally Draco yielded. He snatched the parcel from Potter’s hand, trying for disinterest though he didn’t think he managed it. 

Inside the soft grey cloth was a ring box. There was nothing particularly special about the box itself. It was red and velvety the way most ring boxes are, but it was new. As though this was the first thing this box hosted. Which made little sense. Potter called it an artifact. Not a word one uses for new things, even an idiot like Potter knew that.

Draco pried open the little box. The hinge held a moment too long—clearly _very_ new—before yawning open to reveal the treasure within. 

It was a ring, as Draco expected, but breath caught in his chest nonetheless. The band was thick, inlaid with woven silver and gold in perfect symmetry. Within the braided, curling metals was a set of three stones cut so perfectly the shone like fire—a ruby flanked by two emeralds. Engraved along the inside of the shank were the hallmarks of ancient magic.

Draco had never seen a ring this beautifully crafted, with stones this perfect.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, unable to keep the awe from his voice. 

“Confidential,” the female Auror answered, her words tinged with a slight French accent.   
But Draco paid her no mind because in almost the same moment, Potter said, “why?”

Without hesitating, Draco pulled out his wand and began casting wordless assessment spells on the ring. The three Aurors tensed around him, but he kept on. Magic crackled on the air as Draco’s spells revealed more and more information to him.

“This is beautiful,” he said. “The craftsmanship is unparalleled. I haven’t seen metalwork like this on jewellery before the fifteenth century and certainly not in anything not owned by a royal family. And the stones—”

 

“What? What about the stones?” Potter asked, his expression now clearly intent on the information. Something in his eyes told Draco that he was expecting something nefarious.

Instead, Draco said, “the cut and colour is spectacular. Not a single inclusion, no cloudiness. The ruby is a perfect blood red, and the emeralds—not even a surface breaking fissure.” Draco held the ring up to one of the floating white globe-lights that hovered above his counter. “It’s perfect.”

“Is that all?” Longbottom asked, stepping closer and keeping a wary eye on Draco. “There’s nothing else to tell us about this ring?”

Draco eyed Longbottom and the female auror before his eyes found Potter again. This was certainly no ordinary ring. Aurors did not get involved in the traffic or possession of magical objects unless they were dark magical objects possessed by dark witches and wizards. 

“This ring dates back to the fourteenth century,” Draco said, his tone neutral and professional. With more effort than it should have taken, Draco returned the ring to Potter’s hand. “The metalwork and cut of the stones suggest it is of Celtic origin, and the engraving indicates it is most certainly a magical artifact.”

Potter stared at him, his expression inscrutable and intense. 

“What was its purpose,” Potter asked, “this ring. Can you tell what the magic in it was?”

A slow smile crept to Draco’s face.

“I’d have thought that part was obvious,” he said. Potter pulled a face, only slightly, and tilted his head back. The angle revealed the long swoop of his neck, and Draco’s eyes began roaming downward unconsciously.

“Get on with it,” Potter said, his mood still inexplicably close to amused.

Draco leaned in, closing the distance between them as though Longbottom and the other auror were not present at all. From this close, Draco could smell the wetness on Potter’s hair, the sharp, woody fragrance of his shampoo, and the peppermint on his breath. 

“It’s a wedding ring, Potter.” Draco’s smile quirked itself into a smirk, and he added, “though I suppose you’ve never seen one, have you?”

“Of course I have,” Potter said and, finally, Draco thought his tone was a mite defensive. 

“Whose wedding have you been to, then?” Draco asked. “Weasley and Granger? Hardly the kind for ancient pureblood traditions.” Shaking his head, Draco glanced at the ring again. It looked strangely fitting in Potter’s hand. “The magic inlaid into the ring is an ancient ritual of magical bonding.”

“That explains it then,” Potter said with a smirk of his own. “Ron and Hermione don’t need a ring inlaid with spells to seal their bond. They’ve got love for that.”

Rolling his eyes, Draco continued, “these spells originate from the very beginnings of the wizarding community. At that time, most marriages were a matter of practicality and advancement. Pureblood families would forge allegiances through marriage and often used magical rings like this one to seal the bonds. There is a prescription within the spell ensuring that neither family can back out or betray the other. Once the couple is bonded with the rings, so too are the families bound to honour one another.”

“How romantic,” Potter murmured. 

“So whose ring is this?” Longbottom asked. 

Draco shook his head. “Impossible to tell. There are no traces of magical lineage on the ring as far as my spells can detect. Any traces of the original spell are so weak now they’re negligible. The magic has faded. Either the bonding was never completed, or the couple died and the magic died with them. The latter seems most likely, given the age of the ring.”

Potter straightened, studying the ring in his hand, his fingers playing with the band. “So it’s harmless now?” Draco nodded. “How does the spell work? Does it just activate when you put on the ring?” And without waiting for a response, Potter slid the ring onto his left ring finger.

Lips pursed, Draco reached out and plucked the ring from him.

“Again, I don’t know what weddings you’ve attended, Potter,” Draco said, “but there are traditionally two people involved.” Taking Potter’s hand as a means to instruct him, Draco held the ring between his index, middle finger, and thumb. “Like this,” he said, and slid the ring over Potter’s index, then his middle finger, then finally his ring finger.

“Wait what—” Longbottom began, but was cut off by a bursting of fairy song and glittering lights. 

A warm glow enveloped Draco and Potter, and tiny sparks of every shade of the rainbow played around them in a swirling wind. From deep within Draco, a heavy thread pulled him forward, his hand gripping Potter’s and Potter gripping back.

When the song and twirling lights dissipated, the pull ebbed, and Draco and Potter released each other as though they’d been handling a baby acromantula. 

“Fantastic,” Longbottom said.

Draco and Potter stared at each other in alarm for a moment. A weight in his hand drew Draco’s eyes downward. His eyes fell on the ring that had materialized on his left ring finger—an identical match to the one Potter now sported.

Mouth open and completely without words, Draco found Potter’s eyes again.

“So much for negligible traces.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finds himself accidentally bonded to Potter—which of course leads to aurors being aurors. But Draco doesn't yet know just how much trouble this ring is going to cause.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter. Prompt in this chapter is "animal: snake." I plan to update this about once a week. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know if you did! 
> 
> Link to LJ: [Chapter 2](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/25244.html)

“Prisoner identification number,” the auror demanded. This man, tall and greying with skin the colour of porridge, was one of the handful of aurors Draco had never met before. He wondered whether he’d joined the department late in life, or perhaps he was much younger than he looked but succumbed to the same curse that afflicted Longbottom.

“Isa-ansuz-nine-seven-three,” Draco said, working to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

There was silence as the man scrutinized a sheaf of parchment Draco could not see. The wrinkles of his brow turned to ridges bold as a cliff-face from the effort of his scowling. Draco decided he would not like this man—a decision which in no way related to the fact that this man clearly did not like _him._

“You are not listed among those released from Azkaban,” the man said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice. Draco watched the man’s knuckles whiten as he clenched his parchment and wand. He was readying himself for an assault.

Doing his best to remain calm and tamp down the urge to snap, Draco said, “of course not. I was never in Azkaban. I was given house arrest and community service—a sentence which I carried out in full, to the satisfaction of the Ministry, and from which I was released _three years ago._ ”

Pursing his lips, the man rolled up the parchment and set it aside. “And yet, you are a Death Eater.”

Draco had had quite enough. The muscles in his neck were wound up in knots. He ached to crack his knuckles, but his hands were magically pinned to the table. And there was still the pull—the indefinable yearning that urged him to throw open the door and seek out Potter. It intensified with every passing moment.

“Was a Death Eater—the crime for which I was given the aforementioned sentence—yes,” Draco spat, unable to stop himself. “I cannot be tried a second time for that crime and have committed no other offense to warrant this unlawful detainment. You will release me at once, or you will allow me to contact counsel.”

“No other offense?” The auror seemed to fight against a laugh. “You tricked a senior auror into a bonding spell by means of a dark magical object.”

“Tricked?” Draco said. “Are you really trying to spin it so as to say I _tricked_ Potter into bonding to me? I didn’t realize that aurors were so easily hoodwinked. From where are you recruiting now? Wizarding day-care? Even I wouldn’t undermine Potter’s intelligence that badly.” Draco was rambling now, and the stress in his neck made it impossible to stop. “Furthermore, what exactly would I want to be bonded to Potter for? How would that serve me? Better I had bonded myself to a Hungarian Horntail for all the safety Potter would bring into my life. Or did you think this was my master plan to win his heart and bear his children? Do you take me for some simpering fan? Have you bloody met me?”

His face having turned an unpleasant puce colour, the auror launched to his feet and leaned over the table into Draco’s face.

“Argue however you like, Malfoy,” he said, spittle spraying Draco’s cheeks, “but the fact remains that you performed the ritual without Auror Potter’s consent and knowing full-well the repercussions of your actions.” Then the man’s face broke into a smile sinister enough to give Greyback chills. “They’ll send you away this time. No cosy hearths and fancy meals at home for you, Malfoy. You’ll finally get to see what Azkaban really looks like.”

A shower of cold flooded Draco and settled in his stomach, but before he could think to answer, there was a quiet knock at the door. It opened a moment later to reveal Potter with an expression so intense Draco couldn’t meet his eyes.

“You are not in a position to be making those kinds of threats, Yves,” Potter said. “The interrogation is over. In fact, it should have ended when Mr Malfoy asked for counsel.” Potter waved his wand toward Draco’s hands, and the spell on them released. Draco immediately rubbed at his knuckles and wrists. “Malfoy, come with me.” Draco rose from his chair, the magical pull leading him, but before they left, Potter turned once more to Yves and added, “I think Kingsley will want a word with you, Yves.”

He walked off without another word, and Draco made to follow him. But before he did, he looked at Yves one last time, committing all the details of him to memory. He hadn’t survived this long without knowing who his enemies were.

“Until next time, Auror Yves,” Draco said, staring into the auror’s eyes a moment too long. When he turned to follow Potter, it was with a flare of pleasure at the flicker of fear he saw in Yves’s expression.

Potter waited further down the corridors, his manner brusque and full of tension. Draco tamped down him momentary victory, remembering that Potter was probably as livid as Yves about their predicament. And at least Potter had reason to be angry. Potter and Draco were the only ones with reason to be angry, really.

And yet, somehow Draco couldn’t muster up any anger. He sought deeply within himself, but found only the constant, yearning pull anchored below his stomach that came into being the moment he placed the ring on Potter’s finger. It was that pull that drew him onward now, after Potter and deeper into the Ministry, when by all accounts, he should have turned tail and left. He had right to leave, having committed no crime. 

But his feet followed Potter, instead.

He guided Draco down the labyrinthine pathways of the Auror Department, passing countless black doors that lead to rooms without windows. Draco had no need to wonder at the details of their design. He’d been inside them before. Each interrogation room was also a holding cell, complete with cot and toilet if necessary. Spells monitored every chamber twenty-four hours a day. There was only one door to each room, and it was equipped with a single doorknob on the outside. Once closed, the door melded perfectly with the walls within the cell. It was enough to drive anyone to confess—even to something they had not necessarily done.

Finally, Potter stopped by an unremarkable doorway made interesting only because it was silver instead of black. No an interrogation room, then.

“Am I to understand my counsel is within?” Draco asked pointedly, and Potter tilted his head in such a fashion as to ask if he was kidding.

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Potter said. “I’ve brought in a specialist to have a look at our—er—problem.” Then, as though he’d only just remembered, Potter slid Draco’s wand out of his robes and handed it back to him. 

Taking it tentatively, Draco studied him a moment, trying to think clearly despite the pull within him. Potter seemed genuine, but where he was concerned, Draco generally had some difficulty with objectivity.

“Am I being released?” he asked, unwilling to enter yet another unknown room in the Auror Department. He’d not had many positive experiences in them.

Potter sighed and ran one hand through his messy mop of hair. “You were never really under arrest,” he said. “Yves was—” He paused, weighing out his words. “Out of line.” Potter caught Draco’s eye and held his gaze with that same intensity he showed in the interrogation room. A tingling grew at the base of Draco’s spine. “But he has history with Death Eaters. A history he hasn’t quite gotten past.”

The familiar dread swirled in Draco’s stomach, the one that enveloped him every time he faced Aurors, but it was quickly dispelled by the look on Potter’s face. He seemed to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing visibly. A clarity parted the intensity on Potter’s face, and Draco came to two realizations. The most important of which was—

“You don’t trust him,” Draco said. “Yves.”

Potter stared at Draco, unspeaking for a moment, then said, “He’s a colleague.”

But there was the barest hint of something in Potter’s eyes as he spoke. A twinkle, if Draco could call it that, as though he was impressed.

“What kind of specialist?” Draco asked, deciding that he needed to learn more about Potter. He used to know him so well, in school. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

“A curse-breaker,” Potter said and swung open the door. Draco stepped in after him to find a tall, attractive black man wearing mostly Muggle accoutrements in varying shades of black and blue. His fingers were adorned with two heavy silver rings—one a spiralled snake, the other etched with runes—and a talisman Draco tentatively dated to the twelfth century hung around his neck.

“Dean Thomas,” Draco said to Potter. “You do realise that school is over, yes? And you are allowed to expand your social circle beyond former Gryffindors?” To Draco’s surprise, Potter offered him a wry smile.

“Dean’s the best curse-breaker this side of the Baltic Sea,” Potter informed him. Thomas smiled and drew his wand. “Gryffindor or not, you can’t argue with that.”

“Hold out your ring hands, yeah?” Thomas instructed, and Draco, refusing to look at Potter, held out his hand. Potter did the same, and as their hands hovered before Thomas, Draco felt the pull within him intensify. Their fingers were merely inches apart, and the air around them crackled with magic. As though magnetized, Draco felt himself shift, his hand seeking out Potter’s. Then suddenly they found themselves, fingers entwined, palm to palm, and unable to release each other.

Thomas seemed unperturbed and cast a number of spells on their joined hands. Draco swallowed hard, glancing over at Potter only to find his green eyes turned to liquid fire again.

A spark of something ignited in Draco, but he tamped it down quickly.

Thomas’s spelled swirled around Draco and Potter’s hands. He tried several different kinds of spells; Draco recognised several diagnostic spells he, himself, used. Others had the rhythm and meter of counter-curses and mirroring spells. None had any effect until Thomas tried an older kind of magic.

Draco knew from his research that some artefacts only responded to the kind of magic used in their creation. Many ancient magical items were created through the use of rituals and chants. Incantations were once complex and elaborate performances, simplified and condensed over time and careful study. 

As he chanted, Thomas’s wand tip glowed purple and trailed a lavender light behind it on the air. He traced over and around their hands, speaking in a language Draco did not understand. Some of the words reminded him of modern Gaelic, but others still sounded more Norman. The train of purple light around their hands formed a cage of luminous ribbons, and as Thomas completed his incantation, the cage narrowed until it settled just above their skin.

With one final word, Thomas swiped his wand to the side, the cage tightening like a knot around them. For a moment, the purple ribbons shone over the rings, then they turned to glass and shattered, spraying a storm of shards around the room.

Draco shielded his eyes, and when he looked back at their clasped hands, he found the rings still intact, the pull within him still strong.

“Bad luck, mate,” Thomas said. “That’s an especially powerful bonding spell.”

The threat of attack passed, the pull eased. Draco and Potter released each other slowly, their fingers brushing briefly as they took back their hands. Draco covered the ring finger with his other hand, self-consciously aware of the residual warmth of Potter’s skin. Shaken, he meant to avoid Potter’s eyes but ended up looking at him anyway.

Potter looked back at him, eyes clouded and expression unreadable. 

“You can’t break it?” Potter asked, turning his attention back to Thomas and releasing Draco from his gaze. The moment he looked away, Draco found he could breathe again. 

“Afraid not,” he said. “That’s very old bonding magic. This kind of spell is no joke. Meant to bind the two parties in all possible ways—mind, body, blood, soul. They were meant to serve each other, protect one another and their families. Any attempt to renege on the marriage contract would end badly for either party. Any outside attempt to break the magic would at best be fruitless, and at worst,” he paused and pulled a face, “could be deadly.”

The room shifted, the atmosphere crystalizing around them, and the pull within them turned sinister. Deadly? Draco wracked his mind for everything he knew on ancient bonding spells but couldn’t remember the details of any broken spell ending in death. 

“That’s all you’ve got?” Potter asked, somehow managing not to dissolve into panic or rage. The most alarming thing, Draco found, was how well Potter seemed to be taking their predicament. 

Thomas slid his wand into the inner pocket of his leather jacket and considered Potter’s question. 

“As I see it, the best chance you’ve got of getting out of this is figuring out the origins of the ring,” he said with a shrug. “From my end I can only try my best general spells. But most of these ritual bondings have fail-safes written in somewhere for extreme circumstances, and that usually resides in a third party of some kind. A bit like a Secret Keeper. Someone both sides trust fully who functions as the heart of the bonding magic. If you find that information, I might be able to figure out the key and break the bond.”

Potter nodded, arms crossed over his chest, and said, “so we find out who the ring was meant for and work from there.”

Draco faltered a moment, cocking his head to the side. “We?” he said. “Potter, you do realize I have a business to run, do you not?” He slid up the cuff of his robes to check his watch—a family heirloom given to him on his seventeenth birthday. There was a deep scratch in the face that partially obscured the time if either hand pointed at the three. He could have easily repaired it, but instead, Draco kept it as a reminder of what that year was like, of the scars he collected, and how his life came crashing down around him. It was the only memento he kept from that time. “In fact, I need to get back to my shop.”

“Malfoy,” Potter said, reaching out to stop him leaving. Draco looked up, his eyebrow arched at Potter’s impulse to touch him. Potter caught his expression and stepped back. “This does affect your life too, you know.”

“And yet you are the auror and I am the jeweller,” he said. “You’ve managed to investigate your own cases before without my help. I imagine you’ll somehow manage to do it this time as well.”

Potter laughed and shook his head. He looked as though he was about to say something but Thomas interjected.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” he said, “but you’ll probably have no choice in the matter. This spell bonds your bodies, too, remember? Means you won’t be able to stray too far from one another. I imagine even a few houses distance between you will become painful.” Draco shut his eyes and counted out his breaths, trying not to think of the particular pitch Daphne Greengrass’s voice can hit when angry. He was about to miss his appointment.

“Looks like you’ll be coming with me to visit Hermione, then,” Potter said.

“Wonderful,” Draco said, “more Gryffindors.” Potter, the prat, seemed to be fighting the urge to snicker. 

“Oh and one other thing,” Thomas said, and Draco deeply considered a silencing hex. “If you don’t plan to stay bonded, there is one thing you must not do.” With an overly innocent smile, Thomas said, “do not shag each other.” A flush of heat assaulted Draco’s body as images of Potter naked flooded his mind. “Bonding spells are meant to be consummated, but once they are, there’s no breaking them.” Thomas clapped Potter on the shoulder as he walked toward the door and added, “try and restrain yourselves.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Potter takes Draco to yet another Gryffindor to see if they can find out who the ring was originally meant for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I'm rather sick, so this took a bit longer than usual. No prompts in this chapter. I hope you enjoy it! Please let me know if you do. :) 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the reviews and kudos! I can't tell you how much I appreciate hearing from you! <3
> 
> Link to LJ: [Chapter 3 ](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/25699.html)

Draco ran his knuckles gently along the barn owl’s back, whispering soothingly in a pre-emptive apology for what it was about to endure. It was no mistake he’d chosen a sleek barn owl for the mission. Of the owls at his disposal, the barn owl was the only one likely to drown out Daphne’s screeches with its own. 

Fastening the carefully crafted message to its leg, Draco lifted the owl and saw it off at the window. Normally he would have sent a more personalised message with one of his own owls to cancel with a client—it was just decent business practice when breaking appointments. But Potter insisted it would be fine to use one of the Ministry’s owls to expedite the job. 

“And anyway,” he’d said, “Ministry owls are used to dealing with irate recipients. They’re equipped with better wards than most wizarding homes.”

Draco was not about to underestimate any of the Greengrass women, but given his inability to be more than a few yards away from Potter, he agreed. 

“I can reschedule my appointments for today,” Draco said, turning back to Potter as the owl took flight, “but I cannot put them off indefinitely. I do have commitments to meet and a business to keep afloat.”

Potter stared at him with something akin to bemusement. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll go see Hermione and check in on your shop after. Fair?”

Draco pursed his lips and adjusted his grey robes. “ _Fair_ is not quite the appropriate word, no,” he said, “but it is acceptable.”

“How gracious of you,” Potter said and held out a hand. Draco almost took it without thinking, so natural did the action seem. But just before their hands touched, both of them withdrew. Draco eyed the ring on his hand warily. How much was the spell doing? He felt much more at ease with Potter than he had felt with anyone before, let alone his school rival. 

Remembering that day on the Hogwarts Express all those years ago, Draco wondered how different things might have been if Potter had taken his hand, his friendship. 

One look at this face and Draco was sure Potter was thinking along similar lines. He scraped a hand through his messy hair and exhaled as if to say ‘sod it all.’

“I need to side-along you,” he said, “to where Hermione is. We’re going to end up having to touch. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Then, in jest, he added, “I promise I won’t bite.”

“But I might.” The words were out of Draco’s mouth before he could even formulate them in his mind. His mouth snapped shut, and he swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat. Potter, however, maintained that insufferable look of amusement.

“I’m an old-fashioned bloke, Malfoy,” he said, offering his hand once more. “At least buy me dinner first.”

Draco rolled his eyes and slapped his hand down on Potter’s with more force than was strictly necessary. He was aiming for painful, but the moment their skin touched a wave of pleasure rocked through him. Warmed from the inside, Draco tried not to look at Potter again but suspected he felt it too.

The familiar tug of Apparition took hold, spinning the world out from under Draco’s feet and spiriting them away to wherever Granger made her home. Draco strongly suspected it was a large library of some sort.

And just like that, he’d fallen back into pace with his old rivalries. Potter had a knack for dredging up memories Draco tried very hard to keep buried. 

When the world rematerialized around them, Draco found himself standing in a large, vaulted room with apparently no doors or windows. To Draco’s knowledge, it might not even have had walls. He was surrounded by stacks upon stacks of books. The piles rose so high in every direction they obscured any light that did not come from directly above, and the only lighting seemed to be enchanted floating fairy lights that did little to dispel the shadows.

The fairy lights dimly illuminated some of the spines of the books to Draco’s side. He glanced at the titles. 1001 Uses for Flobberworms, A Historical Account of Mathilda the Mad’s Sub-Saharan Adventure, A Definitive Guide to Magical Inheritance Law, and Quick Quips and Other Rhetorical Devices: A Guide to Conversing with Muggles, were titles among the ones Draco could make out. He concluded from this that the books were stacked in no particular order.

“Where the hell are we, Potter?” Draco asked, denying the urge to pull out his wand. 

“Storehouse five,” Potter answered, as though that made any sense. He set off down the alley of books, leaving Draco to follow or be lost in the maze of tomes. “One of the many places the Ministry keeps all the things it accumulates. Some of it is donated for historical purposes. Most is confiscated goods from Dark Wizards and the like. Storehouse five is books, obviously.”

Draco sniffed. “I suppose Granger saw this and felt compelled to impose order on the chaos?” he asked. Potter made a sound halfway between a snort and a grunt. 

“Hermione isn’t here to organize the books,” Potter said as they came around a teetering tower of textbooks. “She doesn’t work for the Ministry.”

One eyebrow arched, Draco tilted his head. He would have bet money in school that Granger would end up working for the Ministry. In fact, of the Golden Trio, she seemed the most likely to lean toward government work. 

Potter stopped in front of something that might have been a desk beneath all the scrolls of parchment piled atop it. It sat in what might have been the centre of the storehouse, but given the height of the walls of books, Draco couldn’t be sure of anything. 

“What does she do, then?” Draco asked, unconsciously stopping when he was only inches away from Potter. Potter seemed to sigh as Draco moved closer, but when he noticed, he cleared his throat. Draco stepped aside, putting more distance between them than he meant to, and he forced himself to study the wall of books again. “Surely someone of Granger’s intellectual calibre would not find themselves in this dank dungeon unless they had good reason.”

When Draco brought his attention back to Potter, it was to find the auror watching him with something akin to surprise on his face. 

“I’m a historian,” Granger said, appearing suddenly from behind the mound of scrolls and books. Draco started when he saw her, amazed that he had somehow missed her presence. She was huge. “And thanks. The Ministry is allowing me access to their collections in order to compile a newer, more accurate History of Magic textbook.” Potter beamed at her, then quickly rushed over to help her with the tome she was carrying. It was a massive, leather-bound book with brass clamps and gold filigree across the cover that reminded Draco of some of the books he used to play professor with when he was young. He reached out to take it from her only to have her swat at his hand and drop it with a thump onto the desk, scattering scrolls as she did. “I’m pregnant, Harry, not an invalid.”

And she was. By the sight of her she was ready to pop at any moment.

“Good afternoon, Granger,” Draco said, trying to recover himself. 

“Malfoy,” she said. “And it’s Weasley now.” Draco said nothing to that. She wiped at her forehead with the back of her wrist and exhaled gruffly. With a wave of her wand, a light breeze wafted in around the three of them. “That’s better. Now. I’ve collected all the books in Magical Binding Contracts and the various pureblood family histories I could find that might be useful.” Catching Potter’s incredulous look, she added, “oh, honestly, Harry, Neville sent me a Patronus the moment you got back to the Ministry.”

“You did all this in two hours?” Draco said. Granger—because he couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Weasley—brushed it off.

“Well, I would have been faster, but I’m not moving quite as quickly as I used to these days,” she said with a vague gesture to her belly. 

“Thanks, Hermione, you’re brilliant,” Potter said. “So what have you found?”

“Did I not just say?” she snapped suddenly. “I found you all these bloody books and that’s not enough? You try navigating around all these stacks of books when you’re the size of a bleeding Mountain Troll.” Potter stepped back, his expression apologetic. Draco felt as though a rush of ice washed down his spine, and he suddenly felt very aware of how long it would take him to draw his wand. Granger’s face was flush, but after a moment, she took a deep breath and dropped her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, as though on the verge of tears. “It’s the damn hormones. I’m a lunatic.” She toddled backward and sank down into a chair, a hand to her forehead.

“Hermione, it’s all right,” Potter said, attempting to placate her. Draco thought Potter probably had a death wish, but that was nothing new. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Shrugging him off, Granger sat up straighter and turned her attention to the book she’d dropped on the desk. “Malfoy, you said the ring dated back to the fourteenth century, yeah?” Draco nodded, his eyes falling to the ring on his finger. He had to keep reminding himself it was there. It had already become so natural to have it on, he wondered if it would feel strange to remove it. “So we can eliminate all the pureblood families that don’t trace their lineage back that far.”

Granger flipped open the book, and as she did, Draco felt his breath catch in his chest. There were ink splatters and little drawings along the margins of some pages that Draco recognized all too well. The book was a collected family tree of all the pureblood families in the United Kingdom and it was called The Pure-Blood Directory.

“So what does that bring us to?” Potter asked as Granger drew one finger down the list of families. 

“Still quite a few,” she said, “The Blacks, the Crabbes, the Gaunts, or rather the Slytherins, the Notts, the Malfoys, the Potters, or Peverells, the Weasleys, and the Prewetts.” As she drew her hand down the list, she paused slightly at Draco’s family name. There were ink drawings around it, little crowns and snitches and bold, childish lettering that read best. Granger cocked her head to the side and looked up at Draco. Potter inevitably read the page and followed her gaze.

“My apologies about the ink,” Draco said, schooling his face into an expressionless mask. “I was too young to know better than to deface a historical book of this kind.”

“This is yours?” Potter asked, but the look on Granger’s face suggested she already knew that. “Why does the Ministry have it?”

Draco plucked at an invisible thread on the sleeve of his robes and cast it aside. Trying for nonchalant, he said, “honestly Potter, don’t you read the reports? Surrendering all potentially dark objects was part of the terms of my sentence.” 

Potter glanced at Granger. “But this is just a book of pureblood families,” he said. “How is that dark?”

“I did not get a say in what the Ministry took and what they left behind,” Draco said. “They confiscated anything and everything they deemed inappropriate to remain in my custody, which apparently meant all the antique furnishings, jewellery, and books that Malfoy Manor housed, regardless of their provenance.” Potter looked as though he was about to say something, but Draco didn’t want to hear it. “Shall we continue?”

Granger cast Potter a look before moving on. “We need to narrow this down further. Is there anything else you can tell me about the ring that might help?”

Grateful for the return to solid ground, Draco studied the ring on his finger more closely. “Binding spells this strong were more common in unions between families that didn’t fully trust one another,” Draco said, “although that, in itself, is not unusual given the time period. That does narrow down the poorer of the families, though. Only two very wealthy families would both with a bonding spell this strong, to protect their interests on either side.”

“These bonding spells get more heart-warming by the second,” Potter said. 

“Who wrote this book?” Granger asked, studying the list. “It actually does include details on family earnings and net worth.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “As I said, these things mattered once.” They both cast Draco a scathing look, to which he replied, “they may not matter now, but long ago marriages were about family survival. Everything was political, and everything was about power. There were far more purebloods back then than there are now. Many families just died off entirely. A spell like this is how the wealthier families ensured their own survival.”

“Well, that does narrow it down,” Granger admitted. “The Crabbes and the Gaunts were almost insolvent at that time. The Notts were what you might call middle-class at best. The Weasleys and the Prewetts were in the range of comfortably wealthy, but the three wealthiest families on this list by far are the Blacks, the Malfoys, and the Peverells.”

The pull in Draco’s stomach, the one that drew him to Potter, grew stronger. He found himself standing next to Potter, their arms almost touching. Heat rose between them and curled on Draco’s skin.

“Based on my diagnostics,” Draco said, trying to ignore the pull, “the ritual bonding had to be unfulfilled in some way. Either it was never completed, or the bond was broken before consummation. It could even be that one family somehow managed to betray the other, breaking the rules of the spell. That way the bonding magic would seem to have dissipated but instead remain dormant.”

“And you couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?” Potter asked. Draco made a face and found Potter staring at him. He swallowed hard.

“I’ve only read about it in theory,” he explained. “And it applies given our current circumstance, but there was no logical reason to assume it was the case before the bond took hold of us.”

“And yet this whole mess would have been avoided.” Potter leaned in closer in what he clearly meant to be an intimidating way. But to Draco it read as leering. “Seems a bit convenient you only remember it now.”

Draco sneered, “are we back to thinking I orchestrated this whole thing? To what end? So that I might ruin my budding business? Or perhaps you thought I just enjoy submitting myself to Ministry searches and interrogations. You aurors do so love your well-trodden paths. Try some imagination for once, Potter. Find a new suspect.”

“I dunno, Malfoy. Maybe you wanted to get some publicity fo—”

“Will you two shut up?” Granger snapped. Draco and Potter turned to her, and Draco was suddenly aware of how close he was to Potter. He could smell peppermint on Potter’s breath, the light spice of his shampoo, and the subtle tang of sweat. Potter’s pupils were dilated, so wide they nearly eclipsed the green. “I think I might have found something.”

Turning his attention to Granger, Draco took deep, slow breaths, his mind racing. No one had ever managed to rile him like Potter. No one. At least he wasn’t the only one shaken by their argument. Potter was clearly thrown as he leaned over to look at what Granger had found.

“It’s hard to be certain,” she said, eyeing them both warily, “but I might have found something that fits what you said. There was a couple marked to be married here, but their dates of death are off. The book lists a wedding day, but their dates of death are the same day. They died the day they were married.”

A chord struck in Draco’s mind, but he couldn’t make out the source.

“That sounds like what we’re looking for,” Potter said. “Who were they?”

Granger paused and gave them both a significant look. By the time she said it, Draco remembered.

“Perseus Malfoy and Helena Peverell.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy family history is long and full of surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long! I was sicker than I thought and having some plotting troubles with this. I do believe I have sorted them all out, though, and should be back on track for this story now! 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the reviews and kudos! I appreciate your feedback so much. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, please let me know if you do! :) 
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 4](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/26444.html)

The story was one that Draco had revisited many times when he was a boy. Growing up in the Manor, mainly isolated from other children except during the social season, Draco spent most of his time living in the multitude of history books available to him. Malfoy history was so long and—he was taught—so glorious that the library in his ancestral home was nearly comparable to the one at Hogwarts. The majority of the books were personal journals and accounts of the various Malfoy heirs and their siblings.

There were stories of Malfoys fighting off hordes of Muggles, escaping unjust and tyrannical foreign laws, wooing royalty and nobility into close friendships and love affairs. One particularly exciting historical account, from his great-great-great-great-granduncle Armel Malfoy, detailed the way in which he bred a new species of dragon for the sole purpose of courting a young woman from the wizarding royal family of Romania. 

But the best story was always the mystery of Perseus Malfoy’s death on his wedding day. Because what interests young bored boys more than murder and mystery, really?

The accounts were incomplete, unreliable, and mostly lost to the wear of such a long history. Most of Perseus’s personal journals were lost in a terrible fire that laid waste to the original structure of Malfoy Manor. The remaining documents were only partially legible and very fragile. Draco had never been allowed to actually hold the journal himself. It was kept behind glass under a reinforced stasis charm at the Manor. 

But that was before the war and the Ministry’s determined plundering of his family’s legacy. He tried hard not to imagine where that book, as precious as it was to him and to their current predicament, might be in this vast storehouse of books.

“A diary,” Granger mused to herself, tapping the tip of her wand against her bottom lip. An involuntary echo of his mother’s voice played out in Draco’s head. She always warned him against habits like that, telling him he would hex his own nose off if he wasn’t careful. Wands were not toys. “You say it was badly damaged in a fire? If it really is that old and important enough for your father to keep it under a stasis charm, I don’t imagine even the Ministry was foolish enough to cast it off.”

A flicker of hope in his chest, Draco shifted next to Potter. The pull between them seemed to wax and wane, but it was growing again. The lulls were shorter now, and he could feel himself itching to close the distance between them.

“Have you found any books like that in your searches of this place?” Potter asked, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the Pure-Blood Directory. Potter was feeling it too. He glanced up at Draco with apparent difficulty, and Draco felt his breath catch. 

“There have been a few unique pieces thus far,” Granger said more to herself than either of them. “I could use a modified summoning charm to trigger any books under statis in this storehouse.” Before either of them could answer her, she flicked her wand and waited.

For a few moments, nothing happened, and Draco felt his heart sink a bit. Granger looked even more disappointed, her bushy hair deflating somewhat, but then the softest hint of a whizzing sound met Draco’s ears.

They all strained to hear, and after a second, Potter’s eyes widened.

“Duck!” he cried, and Draco and Granger obeyed just in time. Three books, each in increasingly worse condition, zoomed through the air and narrowly missed Granger’s head. She had not ducked as far or as fast as Draco and Potter, though her massive belly may have been the cause. 

Potter was quick with his shield charms, though, even if he’d shielded her stomach instead of her head. Draco felt a warmth blossoming inside him that he was determined to ignore.

“That’s it!” Draco said, spotting the book he’d studied from afar for much of his childhood. He couldn’t quite keep the excitement out of his voice.

Granger lowered it to the table with another wand gesture, cushioning its descent so that it floated just above the surface of the desk. The cover was dark green leather with embossed, gold-leafed lettering. Or at least, it had been once. The bottom-right corner was burnt so badly it curled around the singed edges, and the leather and parchment inside were both black and crumbling. 

Using a modified levitation charm so delicate it was only known to those who work with antiques, Granger opened the book and leafed through the pages. She scanned the writing so quickly Draco barely had time to take in the wonder of having this book so close at hand. Perseus’s scrawl was worse than Potter’s had been in school, and Draco had spent days decoding the few pages he’d been able to see through the glass when he was young.

Granger, meanwhile, read through it as though it was inlaid by a magical printer. 

More impressed than he cared to admit, Draco waited on her for an assessment of the information. Potter, who showed only a cursory interest in the book, apparently had much experience waiting for Granger to finish reading and tell him what was important. 

Suddenly most of Potter’s Hogwarts years were explained in crystal clarity.

A moment too late, Draco realized he was both staring at Potter and smirking at him. With an expression Draco could only describe as hungry, Potter smirled back at him. All the moisture disappeared from Draco’s throat, and he felt himself inching forward, reaching for Potter.

“Perseus Malfoy was a fascinating man,” Granger said, shattering the palpable draw between Draco and Potter. “And very progressive, given his time period and—er, lineage.”

As though doused in a cold rain, Draco turned his attention back to the book and tried to sidestep Granger’s clearly uncomfortable comment.

“Progressive how?” Potter asked. 

“Perseus was a staunch believer in the advantages of inter-magical breeding,” Draco said with as even a tone as possible. “Unlike most pureblooded wizards of the time, he believed that the mixing of magical and non-magical blood, particularly through half-blood marriages, could amplify magical strength as well as dilute negative inherited traits in magical bloodlines.” Draco’s gaze fell back to the burned edges of the book. “It was an unpopular opinion.”

“You don’t say,” Potter said, presumably before he could stop himself. His cheeks were flushed a delectable pink, and Draco fought hard not to lick his lips at the sight of them. “Why was he marrying another pureblood, then, if he cared so much about mixing bloodlines?”

Granger heaved an exasperated sigh at her friend and said, “he was in _love_ , Harry, honestly.”

“Perseus was the eldest Malfoy child, the eldest son, and therefore the heir to the Malfoy line and fortune. Helena Peverell was the youngest of her family, beautiful, kind, and deeply in love with Perseus in return.” Draco felt the urge to reach out and stroke the book but held himself back. He’d felt such an affinity for Perseus Malfoy, growing up, that the tragic story of his life felt much more personal to Draco than he could explain. “A marriage between the two families was more than beneficial to both parties, but not everyone in each family was so trusting of the couple and their love.”

Potter nodded, stepping away from the desk to pace around by the stacks of books instead. Even the few extra feet of distance between them felt agonizing to Draco. 

“So they fell back on old pureblood traditions to keep everyone happy,” Potter said. “What happened to them?”

A shadow passed across Draco’s mind, and he hesitated. 

“They were murdered,” he said. “Just after the bonding ritual was complete, they were attacked by a werewolf. It killed Perseus and tried to run off. But Helena, driven mad by grief, went after it. She managed to kill it but died in the process.”

A heavy silence fell around the three of them, the weight of it only distorted by the insistent pull in Draco’s stomach. Potter was suddenly next to him again. Draco swallowed hard.

“How did a werewolf manage that?” Granger asked. “Was the ceremony open air?”

“No, it was in a heavily warded wing of the Manor,” Draco said. “Helena was marrying into the Malfoy family; pureblood custom requires the ritual take place on Malfoy ground.”

“But we weren’t on Malfoy ground when we—” Potter said, his expression scrunched in confusion. Draco tried his best not to find it endearing. “Your shop. The magic must count it as Malfoy ground.” Draco nodded.

“This is much too complex for a fully transformed werewolf,” Granger said. “It’s extremely suspicious.”

Draco nodded again and said, “absolutely. Which is why the two families fell almost immediately into paranoid arguments. But no one has ever discovered the truth. Not in all the centuries since.”

“Who inherited the Malfoy estate then?” Potter asked. Draco knew full-well the line of thought. He’d travelled it himself, as had most of his ancestors. 

“Nicholas Malfoy,” Draco said with a minute grimace, “best known for having murdered Muggles under the guise of the Black Death. Not at all like his elder brother, I’m afraid.”

Potter gave Draco an almost triumphant look with just a hint of incredulity. “Sounds like a fantastic candidate for prime suspect, don’t you think?” Draco waved him off.

“Yes, which is why he was investigated,” he explained. “But Nicholas Malfoy came up clean. Or as clean as anyone at that time could be. He even requested another contract bond with another Peverell sister, Imelda, to try and salvage the union. But both families were against it. They deemed the union cursed and handed over the bonding ring to Bond Keeper. They thought—” Draco stopped abruptly, his thumb playing over the shank of the ring. His eyes travelled from the ring to Potter.

“What?” he said.

“They thought that any couple who wore the rings,” Draco said, “would surely die.”

There was a moment of fraught tension before Potter barked out a laugh and shrugged at Draco. 

When Draco gave him a look that clearly said he was worried for Potter’s sanity, Potter answered, “this is hardly the first time I’ve been cursed to die.” Then something changed in Potter’s expression. It looked almost _fond_ to Draco. “Plus you’ve had—what—six attempts on your life, and you’re still walking around. I think we’ll be fine.” 

There were only inches between Potter and Draco now, and the smile on Potter’s face made his eyes crinkle at the sides just slightly. Unable to stop himself, Draco licked his lips and watched as Potter’s eyes followed the trail of his tongue. 

Granger cleared her throat loudly, and Draco found her staring between the two of them with a pointed look. “If you two are both done flirting, perhaps we can get back to finding a way to break the bonding spell.” She paused and added, “unless, of course, you’d prefer to stay bonded.”

Draco coughed, and he and Potter both stepped away from each other abruptly. 

“How do we do that, again?” Potter said, tugging at the neck of his robes.

“Find the Bond Keeper, remember?” Draco said.

“Unfortunately, these documents don’t list a Bond Keeper,” Granger said, clearly put out. “I imagine that was part of the fail-safes, so outside parties couldn’t meddle with the spell or something of the sort. I’m not sure how to find that information, mind you.”

“The painting,” Draco said suddenly, the thought coming to him so violently he felt struck by a bludger. “There’s a painting of Perseus and Helena. It was from the wedding.”

He had stumbled across it one day when he was bored over the summer before first year. The Manor had so many rooms and even more hidden places. He found a small secret passageway behind the staircase to the North Wing. The passage was narrow, and even at eleven he was almost too large to fit through it. It led only to a small window-less room filled with old broken furniture and some grotesque paintings from the middle ages.

But one painting, actually hanging on the wall when the others were littered on the floor, was different. It was a wedding portrait of a young man and woman. The man, blond and fair and striking, was clearly a Malfoy. The woman was rosy and black-haired with blue eyes. When Draco read the plaque, he jolted with amazement.

Perseus and Helena, in all their painted love, standing before him. He tried to ask them questions, to get at the truth of their deaths, but they wouldn’t speak a word to him. 

“I suppose Perseus and Nicholas were never on good terms,” Draco said. “And Nicholas must have been the one to place them in that hidden room. Perhaps they decided that any descendent of Nicholas was inevitably going to be just as bad as he was.” Prejudice works in all directions, Draco thought but knew enough not to say. “Still, I’d found something none of my ancestors had. It was the most brilliant moment of my childhood, prior to meeting you, anyway,” he said to Potter, and Potter, to his credit, had the decency to be taken aback. “So I continued to visit them until I went to school and other things began to occupy my mind.”

“Where are they now?” Potter asked, his voice rough.

Draco studied him. “I was hoping you could tell me. The Ministry took that too.”

Potter sheepishly ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure where the confiscated artwork ended up.” He cast Granger a hopeful look, but she only shook her head.

“I haven’t begun my catalogue of artwork yet,” she said. Without looking at each other, Draco and Potter began to lean towards one another. Granger’s expression shifted to mild alarm, and she added, “but given the urgency of this situation, I think maybe I’ll start early. I’ll let you know the moment I find anything.”

“Brilliant,” Potter said. “Now what?”

Draco checked his watch, his fingers running over the worn engraving on the back as they always do. Pushing away thoughts of the day he received it, he focused on the time. 

“Now, we have done your job,” Draco said. “It is my turn. I have clients waiting on orders, Potter.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Potter said. “Clients with an urgent need for diamond baubles and trinkets. Let’s go, then. I take it you’ll need to Apparate to get us into your wards?”

Draco nodded stiffly, pushing aside the panic at the idea of touching Potter. But Potter didn’t wait. He reached out and grabbed Draco by both arms.

The pull tightened without warning, like a clamp snapping shut, and Draco dragged Potter into his arms. His head was just barely clear enough to get them from the storehouse to Draco’s shop, but the moment they materialized, his thoughts clouded.

Then there was only Potter. Draco crowded him against the wall, hands roving up and down Potter’s body, touching every inch of the auror he could reach. Potter gasped and husked, his own hands clutching greedily at Draco’s robes, urging him closer.

Draco leaned in, his face buried in Potter’s hair, his neck, breathing in the scent of him. His lips brushed against Potter’s jaw, just below his ear, and Potter led out a low, deep sound that sent blood rushing through Draco. His trousers grew uncomfortably tight, but he didn’t notice. He only noticed the taste of Potter’s skin, the sound of his hot, ragged breath at Draco’s ear, and the feel of his hands on Draco’s back.

Draco turned his head as Potter did the same. Their lips parted, their mouths a hair’s breadth from touching, Draco felt Potter’s breath on his face. Potter licked his lips, his breathing hitched, and—

Draco pulled away. Rather, he pushed away, by forcing himself off the wall, and released his hold on Potter. Gasping, panting as though he’d been playing Quidditch for days, Draco tried to ground himself, to remember they weren’t meant to—they couldn’t—

But the look on Potter’s face was a demanding one. It demanded kissing, snogging, all-consuming tasting. 

Carding fingers through his hair, Draco turned away, unable to look at Potter any longer for fear of what he might do. Of what they both might do. When he turned back to Potter, it was to find him smoothing out his robes and trying not to look shaken.

With a laugh that barely veiled his lust, Potter said, “when they say ‘consummate,’ what do you think that means _precisely_?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco shows Harry what he does for a living. Harry seems to like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt for this chapter: lascivious. 
> 
> Thanks so much for the reviews and kudos! They keep me going. :) I hope you like this chapter! ;) Let me know if you do. <3
> 
> LJ: [Chapter 5](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/26731.html)

The work he did in his shop was delicate and meticulous. It was a near-impossible feat on the best of days. Like trying to remove a single scale from a dragon’s neck without the beast noticing you, it required the utmost patience and concentration unless you wanted to end up covered in blood and third-degree burns. 

And those were the days when Draco worked alone, in silence, with nothing but the task at hand to occupy his mind.

So with Potter sitting across from him, emerald eyes trained intensely on Draco’s every moment, Draco was certain one or both of them was going to lose a limb.

“I’m bored,” Potter whined like a ten-year-old at a dinner party. Draco tried to ignore him. The diamond he levitated needed to be placed at _exactly_ the right distance between the poles of both conductors in order to guarantee the dragon’s blood would coat it evenly.

And this had been the easy part when he was working alone. 

“What are you doing?” Potter asked, leaning over the table to study Draco’s work more closely. He was close enough now that the scent of his skin wafted to Draco, settling deep within him. Eyes sliding shut as he breathed Potter in, Draco jerked back to reality when he felt the diamond tip touch one side of the conductor. 

Steeling himself and shoving Potter out of his personal space, Draco said, “I’m attempting to manufacture a Dragonstone, a feat that has yet only been accomplished by three wizards in all of history. If you would kindly sit back down and allow me to work in peace, that would go a long way to ensuring we do not both die horribly burning alive.”

Potter dropped back into his chair, that infuriating smirk still on his lips. Draco replaced the diamond and, after a moment’s hesitation and held breath, released the levitation charm. The diamond, thankfully, remained floating at precisely the right point between the poles. Draco exhaled, set down his wand, and set about preparing the dragon’s blood.

“I thought Dragonstones were a heavily controlled magical commodity,” Potter said, with not a little implication in his voice. “There are a couple royal families that still have jewellery with Dragonstones, but otherwise natural stones can’t be bought, cut, or sold anywhere in Europe without consent of the European Wizarding Union.”

Draco set the first bottle carefully on the table, uncorking the top to let it breathe before he set to work. 

“Yes, Potter,” Draco drawled, “I’ve decided that the perfect time to engage in illegal jewel trade is while I’m attached at the hip to the Ministry’s Golden Boy auror. I am just _that_ stupid.”

Potter flushed and crossed his arms.

“Well am I wrong?” he said, chin tilted upward in defiance to Draco’s snark.

“Natural stones are monitored, yes,” Draco said, “which would be why I said I am attempting to _manufacture_ one. Man-made stones are rare and uncontrolled because they are so difficult to make.” Draco drew circles in the air with his wand above the bottle of dragon’s blood, magically stirring the contents until they began to glow an ember red.

Eyes now trained on the dragon’s blood, Potter asked, “why are you?”

The blood smelled of iron and campfire with just a hint of cinnamon. Draco poured it out into a crystal phial hovering just above the negative pole of the conductor. Crystal was the only substance completely inert when in contact with dragon’s blood. As he poured, the ember-red glow of the liquid brightened until it was more white than red, fire at its hottest. In a moment, he would begin the spell to combine the blood with the diamond and heat both materials to thousands of degrees hotter than any human could stand. 

Draco turned to Potter, hoping to impress upon him the severity of the situation.

“The reasons for my decision to make a Dragonstone are twofold. And while it is absolutely none of your business, I will tell you anyway,” Draco said. “Firstly, the client who requested this order is a very good one. They were the first customers I had when I opened the doors to my shop, and they have returned numerous times since. If they want a Dragonstone, I will provide a Dragonstone.” Swallowing against the memories of those first few weeks of business, the days he barely ate because the rent in Diagon Alley is wildly outrageous and no one wanted jewellery from a Death Eater, Draco readjusted himself in his seat. “The second reason I am making a Dragonstone,” Draco continued, “is because I _can_.”

Potter cocked his head to the side, and despite everything, Draco found the unconscious gesture bloody appealing. 

“But you said only three wizards in history have managed to do it.”

And then the feeling vanished. Potter was a prat once more.

“And it never entered your head that I know the spells and rituals for this procedure because I am one of those three,” Draco said more than asked. Potter coloured again, a lovely dark rose shade, and his eyes clouded over for a moment. 

“Fair enough,” Potter said. “Prove it.”

A snake of hot rage and lust uncoiled in Draco’s belly. With a short and defiant nod, Draco turned back to the diamond. 

The spell was long and complex, using an old dialect of Latin most wizards would never bother to learn. But Draco had practiced this spell and performed it so many times already that he knew the words off by heart. He waved his wand in careful, continuous motions, drawing out a horizontal eight in the air and doubling the circles to either side of it. The incantation and wand-work had to be both precise and repeated until the stone was complete. If he faltered even once, the diamond could reject the blood, explode, or worse.

Inhaling deeply to the pit of his stomach, Draco counted out in his head. At eight he began the incantation, speaking in low, even tones. As he performed the spell, the poles of the convertor sharpened, spinning within their settings until they formed two needle-points at either end of the diamond. The phial of blood, now filled with blinding white liquid, was pulled downward, into a small recess in the negative pole. 

At precisely eighty-eight seconds into the incantation, the phial cracked. The blood within it released into the poles, the white-hot liquid transforming into another state entirely.

But it was happening too fast. Trying to calm his heartbeat, Draco slowed his chanting by a half-second. The blood was turning to lightning, bright red and yellow sparks within the poles. Then it streaked on the air, passing from one pole to the other and straight through the diamond.

As each bolt charged through the gemstone, the perfect white diamond changed in colour. First it turned smoky and black, and for a split-second, Draco thought he’d failed. But the smoky black, struck by another bold, then turned to indigo and swirled like waves within the diamond. At every shot, the stone changed colour and texture. Green and lush as grass, yellow and dripping like honey, orange like molten lava. 

The final bolt struck red—like the blazing passion of a tryst and the deep love of the highest romance. It burned like fire and the unrestrained wildness of a dragon. 

And it glowed. As though looking directly into the molten heart of the sun, Draco felt the stone burn into him. Fighting against the pain of it—not in his eyes, but in his heart—he maintained his incantation, his wand motions. He was so close now. He counted out sixteen seconds in his head, hoping with a kind of savage desperation that it would finally take.

One the sixteenth second, the diamond changed. The blinding red light faded, no longer impossible to look at, and the poles of the converter settled. The blood drained of the phial, the crystal pieces fell away into a fine dust. The diamond remained floating between the poles, but it wasn’t a diamond anymore.

Glinting in every possible way, shining from within rather than from without, the stone before Draco now was a Dragonstone. The largest Dragonstone he’d ever made, in fact. A rainbow of colours reflected within the clear jewel, brighter and more startling than any diamond could ever be. It was red and pink and blue and green and even black in places. 

Reaching out to touch it, Draco plucked it from its place in his equipment. Warm to the touch, it felt at once like liquid and flame made solid. Smooth and silky, but with the ephemeral quality of fire. It was as though you held the air around the stone, not the stone itself.

Heart racing, pumping blood to his head and pounding in his ears, Draco placed the stone carefully in the box he set out for it. His entire body was thrumming with excitement, and he turned to Potter with unrestrained pride and euphoria on his face. He was prepared to gloat to Potter, to rub his nose in the fact that Draco had succeeded when Potter didn’t think he could. But the look in Potter’s eyes was not disappointment or humility.

It was molten lust.

“Was that proof enough for you, Potter?” Draco asked, his voice shaking from excitement. “Or shall I make another?” It was a foolish taunt, considering how much even one attempt at the incantation drained him. And Draco didn’t have another diamond ready. 

But none of that seemed to matter.

“That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Potter said, his words husky and low. 

Draco opened his mouth to answer although no words came to mind. Potter didn’t let him try. In the space of an instant, Potter’s hands were cupped around Draco’s head, pulling him into an urgent kiss. 

And Draco was lost. His hands were on Potter again, drawing his body closer, eradicating the gaps between them with alarming efficiency. Draco’s back was against the counter, the edge of it digging painfully into him, but he didn’t care. Potter was against him, his chest flat to Draco’s, his hips bucking against Draco’s. Draco pressed his knee between Potter’s legs and suddenly the full length of Potter’s erection was pressed to him. Potter groaned into the kiss, his tongue sliding over Draco’s and his hips thrusting hard.

He pressed himself to Draco’s cock, the pressure mounting in glorious sensation. Draco dragged his nails along Potter’s neck, tugging at the neck of his robes. He needed more, needing to taste all of him, from head to toe and all the delicious places in between. 

Potter mimicked his motions, trying to divest Draco like a spoiled child tears at presents. He was wanton, needy, and ready to explode. Draco wanted him to, wanted Potter to give in. He wanted to see Potter at his peak, his most vulnerable, his most desirable. He wanted to taste him and swallow him and push inside. 

Potter’s hands were under his robes, hot palms against bare skin, and Draco urged the edge of Potter’s trousers down, his finger sliding under the edge of Potter’s pants to get at the sensitive, secret flesh—

Potter pulled back as Draco pushed him off, as though they both realized the danger at the same moment. The pull between them strengthened, nearly tangible on the air. Potter stumbled away from Draco, pressing himself against the wall of the shop while Draco let himself slide down against the cool glass of the counter. Face to the glass, he hoped it would calm his feverish skin.

They sucked down air as though they’d been drowning, unable to get enough oxygen to clear their minds. Draco shut his eyes, knowing that the sight of Potter would only make it worse. His green eyes with blown pupils, his red-flushed cheeks, the messy hair Draco had his fingers in only moments before, the tell-tale bulge in his—

Draco groaned and knocked his head against the glass of the jewellery case, cursing himself and the bloody ring. 

“So,” Potter said, trying for nonchalant and failing miserably, “you never did answer my question about consummation.” He swallowed hard, and Draco panted against the glass, casting ghosts of their lascivious actions on the surface.

“It could mean anything,” Draco said, panic edging out the lust in him. “Sex is the most logical fulfillment of a bonding, but—” He couldn’t quite manage to say it.

Potter stared at him for a long moment. They were already falling into sync with one another, it was clear. 

“But most marriage bonds involve a kiss,” Potter said, the words breathless. Draco pushed himself off the floor. “How do we know for certain?”

Taking slow, deliberate breaths, Draco tried to calm himself. He shook his head at Potter, staring back at the Dragonstone he’d made and thinking of how everything around them seemed to throw them bodily at one another.

“We can’t,” Draco said. “Not until we find the painting. Perseus and Helena will know the details of their bonding. Beyond that, the only other way we might know is,” he paused, almost disappointed at the possibility, “if the pull we’ve been feeling begins to dissipate. It lets up once the bonding is complete.”

One hand to his abdomen, at the place where Draco felt the pull in himself, Potter considered Draco. If he didn’t know any better, he might have said that Potter looked disappointed too.

“I suppose the constant drive for sex would be kind of impractical,” he mused with a weak laugh. Draco stared at him, unable to understand how Potter could find this situation funny. Then he surprised Draco again. “If the bond is fulfilled—does that mean I have to call myself Mr. Harry Malfoy?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco tries to do work but everything seems to be getting in the way. Then Draco tries to do something _else_ , but nothing really goes as he hopes, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I missed posting on Tuesday, so sorry about that! Thank you so much for the reviews and kudos! I appreciate it so much! <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. :) Please let me know if you do!

The bell tinkled just as Draco was putting the finishing touches on the setting for the Dragonstone. He looked up from his work, but when he turned around, it was to find Potter had already leapt from his chair—placed as far from Draco as they could manage in the small shop—and took up a spot behind the counter to greet the customer.

Draco stared at the back of Potter’s messy head in mild alarm. He was unaccustomed to having any kind of help around the shop, and the ease with which Potter stepped into the role of assistant was deeply unsettling to Draco. Right before his eyes, Potter welcomed the customer, asked if he could offer any help or advice—as if Potter had any knowledge to proffer when it came to jewellery—and encouraged the customer to browse until they found something that pleased them.

Draco was apparently not the only one alarmed by this behaviour. The customer stared unabashedly at Potter for a good two minutes, mouth gaping, before nodding wildly and scurrying away to one of the far displays. It was as if the person, a man with dark shaggy hair and a slightly crooked nose, was so shocked by the scenario he’d completely overlooked that Potter was an auror and not actually a shop assistant. 

The man glanced over his shoulder several times, as though frightened of Potter’s overt pleasantness and polite smile, before scuttling away out the shop door.

Draco, meanwhile, could barely register the customer as he was still staring at the back of Potter. He was, of course, not taking in the way Potter’s auror robes stretched smoothly across his back, nor the delightfully erotic way the robes caressed his arse. No.

The Dragonstone-kiss debacle was certainly enough possible bond-fulfillment for one day.

“Thanks, come again!” Potter called after the customer, rushing to the door as the man was presumably running down Diagon Alley.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Draco asked, his voice hitting a slightly uneven pitch he immediately ignored. Potter turned slowly, a placid smile on his face.

“Can I help you with anything today, Sir?” Potter asked. Draco nearly smacked him.

“If you’re going to pretend to help me around the shop, do you think you could perhaps tone down the enthusiasm?” Draco said, a drawl creeping in to his voice. “You’re current level is somewhere between rabid Chosen One fangirl and Obliviated Gilderoy Lockhart.”  
“I did get some Lockhart, though,” Potter said with what sounded like triumph. “Was worried it wasn’t coming through.”

“Not enough teeth in the smile,” Draco said, and Potter snorted.

“I just need to occupy myself somehow,” Potter said, running a hand through his hair. “And watching you work is not an option.” 

Not after earlier, no. The pull had eased somewhat since they’d kissed. Draco wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or panicked at the thought, but he settled for determinately ignoring it entirely.

The bell above the door chimed again, and both Draco and Potter looked over to find Longbottom in the entrance. He looked somehow more weathered than he had that morning. 

“Hullo, Harry, Malfoy,” Longbottom said, nodding to them both. Draco nodded and turned back to his work. But the kiss with Potter, the way they talked to each other now—as if nothing had ever happened—made it impossible to concentrate. Even the possibility that the bonding was complete made Draco thrum with anxiety. 

And Potter was making it that much worse by acting completely _calm_ about the whole thing.

“Found anything?” Potter asked Longbottom as Draco pretended to work. 

“We tracked the owl that sent the package, but it was essentially a dead end,” Longbottom said. “Came from the Owl Post Office here. Asked the clerk who used this owl in the last couple days, but they get hundreds of people in. He gave a vague description—man, average size, brown hair—but that’s about half of the wizards out there. Plus, it could have been someone under Imperius or using Polyjuice, so that’s essentially useless.” 

Potter sighed heavily and leaned against the counter. Draco shut his eyes, trying not to notice any part of Potter in his peripheral vision at all. 

“And nothing on the other contents of the post?” 

“Not yet, mate,” Longbottom said. “We’re tracking down every lead, but some of those objects were so common they could have come from anywhere. At least two came from Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and they have almost as much traffic as the Owl Post Office.”

Potter hummed to himself a moment, and though Draco was not paying attention, he seemed to have come to something.  
“Yeah, but Ron mentioned they might want to set up new wards to track customers in the shop after so many of their products have been used in criminal acts. They might have something,” Potter stood up straight. “I’ll check in with them later. Did they test the wrappings?”

“Yeah. Nothing there either. Everything from the box the ring came in was so common it can’t be traced to anywhere in particular. Not even a hint of a magical signature.”

And then something struck Draco. 

“Excuse me?” Draco said, turning to both of them, one eyebrow arched to his hairline. “The box the ring came in? Do you mean to tell me you received this ring _in the post_ , with no marked sender, and that didn’t strike you as _suspicious_?”

An expression half-way between offended and sheepish crossed Potter’s face. 

“Well, of course it did,” Potter said. “But it was a box filled with mostly harmless objects, so—”

Draco was about to Obliviate himself. “Yes, mostly harmless objects you can find at a joke shop and _one_ rare and expensive, gem-encrusted ring. One of these things is not like the others, is it, Potter?”

“It wasn’t the only antique artifact in the box!” Potter snapped, his cheeks and ears red. “There was a set of rare scrolls, a set of antique wand-crafting tools, and a fossilized dragon egg—all items we sent to experts to verify their authenticity, worth, purpose, and potential for dark magic! They were all clean.”

“And the ring you brought to me,” Draco said, arms crossed. “Where you proceeded to put it on without a second thought.” Turning to Longbottom, Draco added, gesturing to Potter, “How is it _I_ was the one interrogated after this mess?”

“I only put on the ring after you told me it was clean,” Potter said. Longbottom, meanwhile, gave a noncommittal shrug, apparently deciding it was best to keep out of this particular argument. “Maybe if your spells were a bit more precise—”

“I demonstrated the precision of my spells earlier today, and you didn’t seem to have any complaints.”

Potter coloured to the point he looked drenched in red ink. Then, exhaling a long ragged breath while Longbottom studiously examined the glass on one of the displays, Potter shook his head.

“It hardly matters now,” he said, looking at Draco. The pull flickered within his belly, not quite the strength it had been. Tension between them seemed to inflame it. “What’s done is done. All we can do is search out the painting and hope it holds the answers. That and find the sodding prick that sent me the bloody package in the first place.”

Draco breathed deeply, slowly, counting out the seconds. Once he’d calmed himself sufficiently, he nodded to Potter. He had spent years learning to control his reactions, learning the hard way that showing too much of any emotion would only ever land him in an interrogation room or a cell. But Potter—he always plucked at Draco’s strings in a way no one else ever could.

When he looked back up at Potter, he expected a grim expression. Instead, Draco found the man half-smiling at him again. How was he always pleased with the way things went? Between the two of them, every day was a disaster.

“Look, you’ve both had a difficult day,” Longbottom said after a moment. “We’ll run down every lead we’ve got and find a way to fix this. But in the meantime, why don’t you both head home? There’s not much you can do until Hermione finds the painting, anyway.” Then a light sparked in Longbottom’s eye, and he pulled something out of his robes. He handed the medium-sized box over to Potter with a shrug. “From Hannah. Maybe they’ll help you both relax.”

Potter opened the box to reveal mini treacle tarts. His entire face lit up with a smile as he tucked in. Popping a full one into his mouth, he offered Draco the box. As he took it, Draco shrank into himself, his eyes travelling from the sweets to Longbottom. 

It had been years since anyone had offered him a gift of this kind, and though he knew it was probably meant for Potter, Draco still stood awed at Longbottom. Years of torment when they were children, then years of suffering during the war, not to mention all his aunt Bellatrix had to account for, and still Longbottom somehow found a way to be compassionate to Draco. 

The door chimed as Longbottom left, Potter waving his thanks through the window. The tart crust crumbled in Draco’s fingers, and though it smelled delicious, he couldn’t bring himself to eat it.

“What happened to him?” Draco asked without really meaning to. Potter turned around, licking treacle from his fingers. A pang of lust struck Draco’s stomach, but he swallowed hard. He wouldn’t be distracted.

“To who?” Potter said. “Neville?”

“Was it a spell? Some kind of dark curse or potion?” Draco set the box of tarts on the counter. “The last I saw him before today, he was young and healthy, and now—”

Potter grew quiet, contemplative. He seemed almost confused, studying Draco’s face as he asked his questions. Then, considering Longbottom, Potter stared out the window where he had passed. 

“No, nothing like that,” Potter said, picking up another tart. This one he held, hesitating in his thoughts. 

“Then how—” Draco began, eyebrows knitted together. Potter turned to him, his expression wholly unreadable.

“His gran died,” he said, and it took Draco much longer than it should have to process the information. “A year or so ago. Unexpected, but natural. She was still quite young for a witch, but not impossible.” He took a breath, as though he meant to say more but wasn’t sure of his listener. “A few days after it happened, he was called in to St. Mungo’s. His parents—well, they’d—” Draco could feel Potter’s eyes on him, scrutinizing his every move. He didn’t think he needed Potter to explain further, but Potter did anyway. “Suicide isn’t uncommon for people in the Janus Thickey Ward, but it was still a shock. To everyone. Lost his whole family in the span of a week, and,” Potter paused, looking for the words, “hasn’t really been the same since. I thought everyone knew.”

The tart still in his hands, Draco set it down in the box. He couldn’t eat it now. Draco felt weak, as though the ground might give way under him. It had been years since he’d felt this way, this powerless and guilty. He’d worked hard to put those thoughts and feelings behind him, to move on and grow up. But Potter brought with him all these painful feelings and crashed back into Draco’s life just when Draco thought he might be able to be free. To let the past go.

Things never worked out the way Draco wanted.

“Malfoy?” Potter asked, concern pouring from his words.

“I owe that man almost as much as I owe you,” Draco said, more honest than he intended. Potter’s expression shifted, clouds opening to a bright blue sky.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said and reached out to grasp Draco’s shoulder. When his fingers touched Draco, all the power in him vanished, as though washed of him by a hurricane.

Draco collapsed into Potter, his soul seeking the support of that one gesture. Potter caught him, enveloped him in his arms, and cradled Draco against his chest. Draco sighed out his pain and guilt, and Potter held him still. The warmth of it radiated through him, but without any of the heat or lust from earlier. This was a stronger kind of warmth—the kind that doesn’t fade, that stands the test of time.

Draco heaved quietly, once, his arms wrapped around Potter too. They stood there, entwined, for minutes or hours, and only breathed one another. Potter’s hands smoothed up and down Draco’s back, in comforting tracks and quiet circles. After a while, he pressed his lips to Draco’s head, so softly it felt like snowfall, and squeezed him once.

“Neville was right,” Potter said as he gently allowed Draco to right himself. “It’s been a long day.” Embarrassment crept into Draco’s cheeks and mind, but Potter was still smiling at him. This time, it was in tiny quirks at the corners of his mouth and the soft, mossy green of his eyes. Not lust. Something else. 

“Right, yes,” Draco said, keenly aware of Longbottom’s suggestion. _Home._ “Where should we go then? Yours or mine?”

Potter laughed, and Draco fought the urge to retreat. There was a glint in Potter’s eyes that Draco might have once said was a Slytherin trait.

“Always with the naughty talk,” Potter said with a smirk. “Your mind must be an exciting place.” Draco felt a flare of heat beneath his collar. “Why don’t you take me to dinner and we’ll see where it goes from there?”

The heat beneath Draco’s collar began a steady trajectory downward, and Draco gave in to Potter’s games. He stepped forward, tilting his head slightly to the side, and leaned in to whisper, “Are you asking me to seduce you?” Draco pulled back slowly, relishing the molten look on Potter’s face. “I’m not certain you can handle it.”

Potter licked his lips, and Draco felt his inhibitions vanishing.

“I can handle you,” Potter said, and Draco smirked.

“You’ve _always_ been able to handle me.” 

Potter reached out, grabbing a fistful of Draco’s robes to draw him closer. At the back of his mind, Draco knew they shouldn’t do this; he knew they were treading a dangerous path, but he didn’t care. He leaned in, Potter’s mouth slightly open, begging for him, and—

_”Ron, Ron—Ron Weasley! Ron, Ron—Ron Weasley!”_

Draco froze, the moment shattered, and stepped back, staring in alarm at Potter’s robes. An obnoxious and slightly musical voice repeated Weasley’s name again and again. Potter looked both mortified and frustrated as he pulled a metal object from his pocket. He flipped open the thin, black object and put it to his ear.

“Yeah, Ron, hi,” he said. A voice came out of the device, but it wasn’t clear enough for Draco to understand. Instead, he watched in distress as Potter proceeded to have a conversation with the thing. “Yes, Malfoy. No, of course he wasn’t. It’s fine, Ron. Have you spoken to Hermione? Well, then you know it’s fine. We’re dealing with it. It’s not like this is the first time something like this has happened to me.” Draco cocked his head, wondering how often Potter ended up soul-bonded to someone via cursed ring. “Yeah, all right, we’ll be right over.”

That last alarmed Draco more than anything else. One eyebrow arched skyward, Draco merely stared in silence at Potter, waiting for an explanation.

Potter snapped the object shut and slid it back into his pocket. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair, and only then seemed to notice Draco staring.

“It’s a mobile,” Potter said, then stopped himself when he realized that word meant little more to Draco than the device had, “A telephone you take with you. A Muggle thing. Hermione insister Ron get accustomed to some Muggle technology to make it easier to keep in touch with her parents.” It was at that point that Potter apparently noticed Draco’s eyes glazing over. “Doesn’t matter, anyway. I didn’t think it would work in here with all the wards you’ve got. We should probably check into that later. Anyway, I’ve said we’d go by the shop so he can reassure himself we’re both alive and well.”

“We?” Draco asked, his expression clearly dubious. Potter shrugged.

“Yeah, all right,” he said. “Just me. But He’s not like he used to be, and neither are you, so it’d do you both some good to see that, I reckon.” He checked his watch. “Besides, it’s about time you close the shop, and Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes have got their own wards. We can check them while we’re there.”

Draco rolled his eyes and set the wards to close the shop. 

“You know, maybe tomorrow I can take you round to see all _my_ ex-Slytherin friends, and you can tell me how pleasant that feels.” 

Potter cast him a look of feigned surprise over his shoulder. “You’ve got friends?”

“Oh shut it.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry visit Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes in the ever-continuing saga of "visiting Gryffindors Draco had been trying to avoid."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Tuesday and on track! Thanks so much for the reviews and kudos! They mean the world to me! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Let me know if you do! <3
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 7](%E2%80%9D)

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was as it had always been—loud, garish, and absolutely exploding with whimsy. It was paradise to those young of age and heart. Draco remembered the first time he walked in. It had been shortly after Voldemort swept into the Manor and proclaimed himself its king, taking all of Draco’s childhood memories and dreams along with him.

Consumed by anger and hatred he directed both outwardly and inwardly, Draco was about to enter the darkest period of his life, but he hadn’t known it then. No one ever really does. 

He’d been stupid enough, childish enough, to think of Voldemort’s presence at first as _an honour_. Of all things. It didn’t take long to decipher the truth—it was a punishment. And a severe one. But with his father in prison, who was Draco to turn to? Snape was, to all appearances, on Voldemort’s side, and there was hardly a wealth of male figures in Draco’s life. Beyond his father and Snape, there was only Voldemort. 

His mother shook in quiet fear every day Voldemort walked the halls of the Manor, but his Aunt Bella—

It was a miracle of some kind he managed to survive the war at all.

When the Dark Lord tasked him with Dumbledore’s murder, Draco splintered. His anger and hate—for Dumbledore and Potter and everyone else who let him fester in that darkness—took over the majority of his actions. The other part of him—his fear, his pain, and the last shreds of his innocence—only emerged at his darkest points, long enough for Draco to see the horrors he wrought and to consider ending it in the only way he thought he could. But he was even too much of a coward for that.

And then, when the plans lain out in anger required supplies, he found himself wandering along a deserted Diagon Alley and into the den of his enemies. Draco had prepared himself to be revolted, disdainful of their success and pitiful attempts at humour in the face of evil. 

Instead, he felt only wonder. For the few brief moments, that first time he walked in, all the terror and pain and vengefulness were stripped away. Draco was left in awe, a child surrounded by dreams, and he forgot he was in danger.

Pushing the thought aside, Draco tried to appear nonplussed, expressionless at entering the shop. But he still felt a spark of wonder every time.

It was after closing hours, so when Potter pushed through the door, a flicker of excitement rushed through Draco. As though he was a child again, he felt some kind of perverse pleasure in entering such a place when others were not allowed. Until he walked clear into an invisible wall.

Stumbling backward, Draco nearly toppled into a couple walking down the street behind him. The pull between him and Potter stretched taught, like an elastic band, and snapped Potter to attention. He turned and opened the door, stifling at laugh at Draco’s position.

“Sorry,” he said, “Forgot about the wards.” He reached into his robes for what Draco thought was a wand but instead pulled out a scrap of parchment. Handing it to Draco he said, “speak the words on the parchment and press the tip of your wand to the central ‘W’ on the door. It should let you in, then.”

Lips pursed, Draco stepped warily up to the door and unfolded the parchment, wand in hand. Pressing the tip of his wand as instructed, Draco said the words aloud, though quietly.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The tip of his wand sparked at the end, three red pinpricks of light. The lettering on the shop door alighted with the sparks, and somewhere inside his head, a quiet voice said, “Messrs. Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs welcome you, Master Malfoy, to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.”

A chill ran down Draco’s spine, a narrowing sense of dread and grief, though he could not explain from where it came. He stepped cautiously through the door, feeling the colour drain from his face. 

Potter was already climbing the stairs to the second level of the shop, gesturing for Draco to follow. Draco tried to shake off the feeling the wards gave him and hurried to catch Potter. 

The shop was still just as lively and delightful at night, though without all the screaming, laughing children it seemed eerily quiet. The displays perfectly ordered and stocked, the store seemed to thrum in anticipation of tomorrow’s customers. Everything on the shelves begged to be picked up, played with, and used in some way. Draco’s fingers itched as he passed the various sections of the shop on his way up. He did stall slightly walking by the WonderWitch section however. Love potions and the like suddenly seemed more sinister than they ever did before.

A sudden crash and a cry cut Draco’s musings short, and he and Potter both ran the last few steps to the top floor of the shop. Potter swung open the door marked “Workshop—Testing In Progress” and immediately launched himself backward, knocking Draco out of the way of a massive metal sword. The sword stabbed itself into the wall where Draco’s head had been, before it disintegrated into a million shimmering dust particles and vanished on the air.

Breathing heavily, Draco looked up into Potter’s face to find it a mere inch away from his own. Potter’s entire weight was on top of him, but Draco hardly seemed to mind. His body pressed tightly to Potter’s, Draco stared into Potter’s eyes and found the same heated expression he’d seen earlier in his own shop. Potter swallowed hard, his hand coming up to brush a lock of hair from Draco’s forehead.

“Er, you all right, mate?” Weasley asked, and Potter and Draco both jerked so violently Potter was knocked off Draco and into the railing. 

“No thanks to you,” Potter said, trying to sound more miffed with Weasley than embarrassed. He failed. 

“It wouldn’t have actually hurt anyone,” the elder Weasley said, eyeing Draco cautiously from within the doorframe. He, like Longbottom, looked older than he was, but it had been years since George Weasley had aged prematurely, and everyone in the Wizarding World knew why. His hair was slightly too shaggy and streaked with wisps of grey. His once broad frame dwindled slightly, and he leaned his head perpetually to once side, compensating for his missing ear. 

“Well how were we to know that?” Potter asked, frowning as he got to his feet. Without thinking, he reached out a hand to help Draco up, and similarly, Draco took it. Only once he was standing did Draco realize and drop Potter’s hand. 

“Sorry.” The younger Weasley shrugged. He looked less like his brother than ever. Still tall, he was no longer than lanky child he once was. Instead, he’d filled out and wore his height like armour. His hair was cropped shorter than his brother’s, clean-cut with just a hint of flare. The tips of his locks accentuated the strong lines of his face. Weasley had somehow turned himself into an attractive man, if Draco was being honest. Realizing this was probably entirely Granger’s influence, Draco decided to stop thinking about it altogether. “We’ve been experimenting with Life-Size Wizard’s Chess. Remember like McGonagall made in first year?”

“Ron had this idea to make spring-up, reusable illusions of it,” his brother explained. “All the excitement with none of the actual danger. And no real clean up afterwards.”

“But we’ve run into a few problems,” Weasley admitted. “We still haven’t come up with a reasonable solution to what happens if your piece gets knocked off the board. It’s particularly bad if you play the knight. Falling five feet from a vanishing stone horse is a bit more painful than we’d like.”

Potter laughed and shook his head. “Well you’d know.”

Weasley laughed, and Draco remembered why it was so difficult to befriend Gryffindors. No sense of self-preservation.

“How’s tricks, then?” the younger Weasley asked, and Draco vaguely wondered if he should begin to think of them by their names or just Weasley One and Weasley Two.

“You tell me,” Potter said. “You’re the one worried for my life.”

“You got yourself soul-bonded,” Weasley said, “by a cursed ring, Hermione said. She mentioned some other details, as well.” And by the pointedness of Weasley’s tone, Draco knew what he meant. Colouring slightly, Draco averted his gaze and glanced around the shop. The aerial view was quite interesting. “And from what I saw a moment ago, she was right. You’re throwing yourselves at each other.”

Draco choked on nothing. Potter frowned, and Draco contemplated the injuries one might sustain from a fall at this height. Probably not lethal.

Probably.

“We’re not _throwing_ ourselves at each other,” Potter said. “There was a massive weapon coming at me, and I ducked to get out of the way.”

“You threw yourself at Malfoy to protect him,” Weasley amended. “That doesn’t seem a bit off to you? No offense, Malfoy.”

Draco made a noise of acknowledgement, but Potter made an entirely different sound.

“I’m an auror, Ron,” he said. “I protect people. It’s my job.”

Draco turned to see Weasley giving Potter a meaningful look and, despite himself, added, “It may actually be the ring, Potter. I did mention these kinds of bonds ensure both parties do whatever it takes to protect each other.”

Potter looked mildly mutinous, but Weasley only glanced between them both, an indecipherable expression on his face. 

“Well, it didn’t matter in the end, did it?” Potter turned his attention to the elder Weasley. “We came to ask about the case, anyway. George, you’d mentioned you were going to set up new wards to track your customers. Did you?”

“Yeah, a few months back, why?”

“There were two Wheezes products in the box sent to me,” he explained, “and we thought maybe we’d get lucky and find out who bought them.”

“Sure, yeah, what are they?” he answered, gesturing for them all to follow him to another room, this one marked Records. 

“Er,” Potter pulled out a list from his robes. “Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder and a set of Protean Parchment.”

“Protean Parchment?” Draco asked, filing after the second Weasley into the narrow Records room. Contrary to expectation, there were no actual records anywhere in the room. No parchment or scrolls, no files of any kind beyond a single book atop a plain desk. The elder Weasley scrolled some invisible word on the ledger with his wand-tip, and soon lists scrawled themselves across the page.

“It’s parchment you give to your friends to send secret messages in class. You can maintain a whole conversation without ever turning around to look at anyone or pass actual notes,” Weasley explained.

“Similar idea to the coins Hermione enchanted for Dumbledore’s Army in fifth year, or—” but Potter stopped himself, and Draco knew why.

_Or like the coins I used to keep in contact with Madam Rosmerta in sixth._

“We haven’t sold much Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder,” Elder Weasley said. “Ministry put a strict control on it after—” he glanced in Draco’s direction, and Draco let his head drop slightly. All his past mistakes come back to face him. All in one day. “In any case, buyers are highly regulated. Have to pass all kinds of background checks now. We usually only sell to Ministry employees or private security firms.”

“Let’s have a list of the names anyway,” Potter said. “I’ll give them to Neville to check out.”

“As for Protean Parchment, we’ve got more, I’m afraid.” The ledger scrolled through countless names. “It’s a big seller with Hogwarts-age children.”

“Any buyers who aren’t kids? Or don’t have any?” Potter asked. Weasley flicked his wand and the list of names became images whizzing by on the air. Young witches and wizards zoomed by Draco’s eyes in quick succession until the images stopped and settled on a set of three customers.

There was a man, roughly their age, with uneven, dark hair and a slightly stunted look about him. The second was a woman with pinned curls, well groomed, and a house elf.

“Names?” Potter asked, studying the images. 

“Protean Parchment isn’t regulated,” the younger Weasley answered. “We ask for names for our lists, but not everyone wants to give them.”

“The woman is Drusilla Montague. She works for the Daily Prophet,” the elder Weasley said. “She’s come in a couple times to ask for interviews. Never agreed, of course, but she always buys something, so I stay civil.

“The house elf is listed as Kertsy,” he continued. “No family name associated, but the purchase was five years ago, when we first introduced the product.”

“Probably not the one then,” Potter said, thinking. “Still would like to know which family she worked for.”

“We had a house elf named Kertsy,” Draco said, and everyone turned to him. “When I was a child. But I haven’t seen her since I was still a child. I always thought she died, but I suppose she might have been freed, or sent to work for another family.”

“Would your parents know where she went?” Potter asked. Draco swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in his throat.

“I supposed my mother might remember,” he admitted. “Though it was a long time ago. I can owl her, if it would help.”

“Can’t we ask in person?”

Clearing his throat quietly, Draco said, “I’m afraid not. She left England shortly after my father passed. She travels mostly. I believe right now she is in Sweden, but I can’t be sure.”

Potter nodded. 

“Who is the last customer then?” Potter asked. “And do any names overlap with the Peruvian Darkness Powder buyers?”

The elder Weasley shook his head. “No. Last buyer is only listed as C.L. Don’t think I’ve seen him in here otherwise. I can barely remember him even looking at the image.”

“Right, thanks anyway,” Potter said. Draco nodded and turned to leave the room. The elder Weasley followed, but the younger Weasley stopped Potter with a hand.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Harry?” 

Potter nodded slowly, glancing at Draco, and Draco let himself out into the main area. The elder Weasley considered Draco a moment, once they were outside the Records room.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Weasley asked him, and Draco was taken aback by the look of compassion on his face.

“What?” 

“Distance,” Weasley said. “From the person you care about.” 

Draco wasn’t certain if Weasley meant his mother or Potter by that, but he realized it mattered little. 

“Yes,” Draco said. Weasley nodded once, then his eyes fell to the ring on Draco’s finger.

“Those bonding spells are nasty business,” he said. “Can easily end in death and dismemberment or worse if they go wrong. Love potions were about as far as Fred and I were ever willing to go. Ethics, and all that. Couldn’t be selling complex and powerful magic to hormonal teenagers, could we? I’d say no one would let themselves get wrapped up in that kind of serious magic anymore. Not unless they were mad or didn’t know. I don’t take you for mad,” he said, considering Draco. “So I reckon Harry was right. You didn’t know what would happen any more than Harry did.”

Draco inclined his head, his tongue stilled in his mouth. Like Longbottom, George Weasley was someone Draco hadn’t been keen on seeing again. He was a walking reminder of the war, of the losses and the mistakes. The ruined side of his head was a mark of the unbearable requirements of war.

“I’ve got something for you,” he said, pulling Draco out of his thoughts. “It might help you and Harry. Hold on a minute.” 

Weasley went off into a room labeled Overstock, and Draco was left alone.

“No, of course, I didn’t,” Potter’s voice said, carrying through the door. It was slightly muffled, but still clear enough to understand. “That’s completely mental.”

“Yeah, it is,” Weasley said. “But you can’t blame me, can you? You’ve been obsessed since I’ve known you. And I know you get bored easily at work, and you’re lonely—”

“Merlin, Ron!” Potter snapped, but Weasley continued doggedly.

“Since Ginny and Anton, and—” There was a pause during which Draco realized his heart was pounding. “Hermione and I are just worried about you, mate.

“Yeah, well, don’t be,” Potter answered. “I’ve not become a complete nutter that I’d—”

“Here it is,” Elder Weasley said, offering Draco a bottle of something smoking a soft blue and effectively talking over the two arguing in the other room. Draco stared blankly at the bottle for a moment, and when he took it, it crackled under his fingers, cold to the touch.

“Cool-Down Cordial?” Draco asked. Weasley shrugged.

“We developed it briefly for a while as a way to counter the effects of love potions and lust potions,” he explained with a sheepish look. “Until we realized that most of the time people would not be interested in countering those effects, and if they did, they’d want a permanent solution, not a temporary one. We sold a few before pulling it. I figured it might help a bit with your situation, though. Hermione mentioned some of the side-effects of the bond and how you and Harry would need to try and avoid them.”

Draco, jaw tight with embarrassment, slipped the bottle into his robes. “Thanks,” he said, trying to ignore the slightly disappointed feeling in his stomach.

“Position noted,” Potter said, swinging open the door. “Thanks, George, for all your help. We best get going now.” Potter smiled but looked harried. He gestured to Draco and began down the stairs without waiting. The elder Weasley followed him out, but this time, the younger Weasley stopped Draco.

“Malfoy,” he said, looking about as uncomfortable as Draco felt. He tried to speak several times, opening his mouth only to say nothing, then sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I know this isn’t the kind of thing people do for kicks, getting wrapped up in bonding spells, so I believe Harry when he says you’re as much the victim here as he is.” Draco wondered if he’d walked into a parallel world this morning, having so many of his old school rivals suddenly showing faith in him. “And Harry says you’re different than you were. After seeing you, and talking to Hermione before, I reckon he’s probably right. You are different. We all are.” Weasley paused again, apparently fighting with himself.

“What is it you’d like to say, Weasley?” Draco asked.

After another moment of fighting with himself, the words finally burst from Weasley’s mouth, “don’t hurt him.”

Shocked, Draco stared. “Hurt him?”

Weasley looked away. “You heard me. I don’t know how this is going to end, but if you’re not a willing participant in the bond, then there are only a few options left. Either you manage to dissolve the bond and go your separate ways, or you don’t and end up bonded forever. Or—”

“Or one or both of us die horribly from the curse,” Draco finished for him. Weasley nodded.

“Whatever happens, Harry is in a vulnerable position, whether he wants to admit it or not,” he said. “Just don’t—take advantage or hurt him.”

Draco’s eyebrows knitted together, the frustration from the day’s events showing on his face. “Weasley, as you said, I don’t want to be in this situation. I didn’t ask for this. And between the two of us, I’m the one who seems more alarmed by the whole thing. In fact, half the time Potter seems almost pleased about being unwillingly bonded to me.” 

Weasley gave Draco another indecipherable look.

“That’s what worries me.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry go to dinner, but nothing goes smoothly for the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry about the delay for this chapter! Last week was a bit insane, but I have not forgotten about this, and I won’t. I have plans for Harry and Draco still. Oh yes. >:) Thank you so much for the reviews and kudos! They always make my day! I hope you enjoy this next chapter. Please let me know if you do! <3
> 
>  
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 8](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/27714.html)

The atmosphere of The Kneeling Kneazle reminded Draco of the start of term feast at Hogwarts in the years before Voldemort returned. The crackling hearth fires and the smell of hearty food warmed him from the inside. Those memories, from when things were still simple and obstacles easily overcome, from when he could play Quidditch and plot against Potter and the only repercussions he needed to worry about were detentions with Filch, were somehow unsoured by the horrors in the years that followed. Draco tried to protect those memories—by never looking at them. 

He kept them stored away in his mind, deep in the heart of his past, wrapped and tied in neat bows to ensure they never tarnished. It was why he avoided places like The Kneeling Kneazle and Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. Why he did a great many of the things he did.

But running through the Alley, umbrella charms barely keeping the onslaught of sudden storm at bay, Potter had bee-lined for the Kneazle. Once inside the heavy oaken doors, he turned to Draco, hair sopping from the uselessness of his actual umbrella and eyes aglow with delight.

“Perfect place for tea,” he said, shaking himself off in a manner not unlike a dog. Draco cast a quiet drying charm on Potter and himself. Clearly Potter felt it, given the sparkle in his eyes and the quirk of his mouth when he turned away. “They’ve got pudding nearly as good as Hogwarts’s here.”

He found them a table, tucked away in a corner surrounded by bookshelves and a tapestry map of ancient Albion, complete with the various wizarding kingdoms of the time. Draco settled into his seat, a hard-backed wooden bench, after hanging his cloak on a nearby hook to block the sight of him. His back to the wall, Draco tried to relax, scanning the menu with more attention than it required. He could feel Potter’s eyes on him.

But that had been a constant for the majority of the day.

“Bit paranoid behaviour,” Potter said, feigning nonchalance. Draco bristled.

“We’ve recently discovered that some unknown person has targeted the both of us with a possibly cursed bonding ring,” Draco said. “It’s not paranoid if someone’s actually after you.”

Potter laughed, a breathy sound from deep within his chest. The effort made his eyes shut with little crinkles at the corners, and the sight of him warmed Draco more than the fire or the memories could.

“Fair enough,” he said, “but I suspect even if that weren’t the case, you’d still have sat where you did.” 

Draco studied the menu more, hoping to avoid having to answer, but Potter’s gaze never left him. The invisible thread that bound them together would not let him ignore it.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” Potter said, and the smirk was evident in his tone. “Tell me something else then.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know,” he said, searching around for a question. “Are you into blokes?” Draco looked up from the menu, deadpanned.

“It may be a bit late for that question, Potter,” he said. “I’m fairly sure the answer is obvious by now.” 

Potter shrugged. “Could be the bonding spell.”

“Bonding spells cannot manifest any kind of sexual attraction that does not already exist in a person,” Draco explained, and Potter flushed slightly. “If I were not attracted to men, it would not have worked to bind me to you.”

“It didn’t surprise you, then, that it worked with me?” Potter asked, ignoring his menu and denying Draco the change to actually read his own. 

“Nothing about today has fallen in line with my expectations, Potter,” he said. “But I daresay the news I’m bound to you might have been the headline over ‘Harry Potter is into blokes’.”

Potter laughed and nodded. “I s’pose so. Do you date much, then? I’d wager you’re the kind who prefers dinners out to dancing, yeah?” Draco grew quiet, colder, and kept his eyes on his menu.

“I don’t eat out much,” Draco said finally, staring at the desserts with no interest. “Lost the taste for it after the war.”

There was a long silence. Draco stared studiously at the menu, people around the pub chatted and ate, and Potter stared at Draco. Then, Potter’s fingers closed around Draco’s hand, drawing his eyes upward. 

“Perhaps I can help you find it again,” he said. Draco swallowed hard, wondering at Potter. Everything about him was confusing and contradictory. Unexpected.

He was the same Potter as ever—reckless, stubborn, hot-headed, daring, self-sacrificing, idiotic, rebellious, compelling, predictable, unpredictable—

“Harry! Good to see you!” a woman’s voice interrupted. Draco glanced up to see a vaguely recognizable woman with red hair and a bright face. 

“Hullo, Susan,” Potter said, still holding Draco’s hand. He remembered her now—Susan Bones, Hufflepuff. Well at least Potter had some friends outside of Gryffindor. “Thought we’d nip in for tea.”

It was at this point that Bones noticed Potter holding Draco’s hand. Until then she had either imagined him alone, or had willfully ignored the presence of another person at the table. When she found Draco sitting there, with Potter, rather than any other person, her face turned the colour of sour oatmeal. 

“Malfoy,” she said in what was almost a hushed whisper. At once point in his life, Draco might have been proud to elicit that response in a person. Now it only churned his stomach. The more he looked at her, the more he remembered. Crabbe and Goyle had bullied her numerous times in school. He’d never taken much interest in her, being she was a Hufflepuff and _not_ Harry Potter, but he had never stopped anything either. 

Draco could hardly blame her for the way she looked at him.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I think I’d best go—”

“No, sit,” Potter said, as Draco began to rise. “You’re with me,” he added, and whether he noticed or not, squeezed Draco’s hand. Bones looked somewhat ill. “He’s with me, Susan, yeah?”

She stared at Draco and Potter and their joined hands for a solid minute before nodding. “Sure, Harry. Anything for you.” A somewhat awkward silence followed before she asked, “what’ll you have?”

Draco’s spine was rigid, his entire body throbbing from the tension, until she disappeared with their orders. He focused on the centre of the table between them, Potter’s hand still on his. Only one she left did Potter release his grip but did not stop touching Draco’s fingers.

“Sorry about that,” Potter said with a pained look. “She’s got more history with Death Eaters than most.” Draco pulled his hand away, the empty spot on his arm burning under his robes.

“Why put her through this?” Draco asked quietly, his mind struggling to place all the pieces of Potter’s puzzle. “We could have gone elsewhere.”

Potter looked genuinely confused. “You’ve paid your debt,” he said with a shrug. “You’ve right to a life like anyone else.”

Draco gazed around the pub, wondering at what each of these people was thinking. Once, he might have been able to find out. He was a skilled Legilimens, after all. But it had been years since he’d been interested to know what was going on in other people’s minds. He learned the hard way that, often, he really didn’t want to hear what other people thought. 

Looking back at Potter now, with his wild black hair and inscrutable expression, Draco found himself wanting. He could have done it. Potter had never been good at Occlumency, though he supposed auror training involved the skill to some degree. But the breach of trust would be insurmountable. 

And that mattered to Draco now.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked, and Potter smiled.

“Yeah,” he said. “It took me a long time to understand prejudice isn’t something only Death Eaters have. We all do. And defeating Voldemort would mean nothing if I just kept perpetuating the same prejudices that brought about his rise.”

Draco nodded, fingering his fork. “Is that why you came to me?” And Potter looked taken aback, his lips slightly parted, his eyes on Draco. Draco felt the pull again, drawing him close to Potter, despite the discomfort he felt about this subject. Something always drew him in, when it came to Potter. “Did you come to me today, with that ring, to fight old prejudices?”

A young woman showed up with their meals, then, and set them down on the table. She wandered away in a moment, but the fact that Bones had not delivered the food herself did not escape Draco. By the look on Potter’s face, he noticed too.

It was a look of disappointment. Something Draco hoped he’d never been on the receiving end of.

Draco toyed with his food a bit, vaguely considering the possibility of poison. He cast it aside, however. Hufflepuffs were not that sort of bunch. Even if she wished him harm, she would never hurt Draco in front of Potter. 

He took a tentative bite and found himself transported back to the feast on his first day at Hogwarts. The sorting feast was the brightest, most vivid memory of Hogwarts. He’d been prepared to scoff at the food, proclaiming his house-elves better cooks than the Hogwarts ones, but he couldn’t. Potter was right, of course, about the food. Though Draco would not tell him.

“No,” Potter said, and Draco had been so engrossed in food he had not cooked himself he forgot what they were talking about. When he looked at Potter with one eyebrow arched, he found Potter smiling, as though he knew what Draco was thinking. “No, I didn’t go to you to fight prejudices.”

Draco swallowed and took another bite, his neck slightly warm under the collar. He tried not to enjoy the second bite so visibly.

“Then why?” Draco asked, and he expected almost any answer but the one he got.

“Because I missed you.” Draco nearly choked on his food. He scrambled for the glass of water and coughed unceremoniously into it while Potter laughed. It was not a humiliating laugh at all. Instead, it was full of warmth and pleasure and made every inch of Draco’s body tingle.

“You are joking,” Draco said once he found his breath. Potter didn’t answer for a moment, taking Draco in. The tingling in Draco’s body took on a different sense. 

“You make life interesting,” Potter said with a shrug, but suddenly Draco could tell he wasn’t as calm as he looked. The pink tinge to Potter’s ears, the way he played with his own glass, suggested he was nervous. “Always have. I guess things got a bit boring.”

Draco froze, staring at Potter. Weasley’s words from the shop echoed in his mind, and his thoughts raced. Potter pretended to eat, but Draco finally, _finally_ began to understand.

“You knew,” he said, and Potter stilled. “You knew the ring was dangerous, that something would happen if you put it on.”

Potter snorted, “yeah, that would be why I was investigating it.”

Draco shook his head. “You knew, and you brought a potentially dangerous ring to _me_ , above anyone else. You knew when you put it on.”

Potter’s face was reddish now, and he waved a hand as though to dismiss Draco’s theory. “No, you did your tests and told me—”

“I told you it was part of a bonding ritual, that the magic can be dormant,” he said, leaning in, feeling the heat sparking between them. “You still put it on. It was colossally idiotic, and you did it anyway. You wanted me involved in your case, to be bound to me because you were bored.”

The anger written on Potter’s face was nearly glowing, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes a burning green. “Don’t be daft. Of course I didn’t know. Why would I—”

But Draco cut him off with a kiss that surprised both of them. Their mouths crashed together, Draco’s hand fisting Potter’s collar, lifting them both from their seats. Potter sucked hungrily on Draco’s lower lip, his teeth grazing Draco’s skin. His hands were at Draco’s neck, cradling his head, pulling him even closer. 

There was a gasp from somewhere far off, and Potter and Draco broke apart. Everyone stared at them, mouths agape, but Potter just said, “sod it,” and dropped some Galleons on the table before Apparating them both away. 

When they rematerialized, it was in a place Draco vaguely recognized. He had little time to take in the surroundings—all he was certain of was that it was dark and empty—before Potter was on him again. He pressed Draco backward until he hit the edge of a sofa and fell into it, Potter atop him.

He moaned as Potter’s weight settled on him, his hips knocking into Draco’s and bucking in just the right way. Draco dragged his hands down Potter’s back, tearing at the fabric of his robes, urging them off. His mind flashed with everything that had happened, with all the voices telling him to stop, that this wasn’t right, that they would both regret it when it was done.

But the louder voice in Draco’s head was his own, driven on by the pull between them, and it told him that he’d regret it if they didn’t. He’d regret pulling away now, turning down this chance to be with Potter. He’d miss the taste of Potter’s tongue, the smell of him so close, the feel of his skin and the permission to roam it freely. 

The voice told him that was _right_ and necessary and the only thing he’d ever wanted.

Potter groaned and broke the kiss in order to pull his own robes over his head. He sat, straddling Draco, his chest bare and toned and glorious. Draco immediately sat up, his mouth latching to Potter’s collarbone, sucking and kissing and grinding into Potter with every motion.

There was tugging and cursing and soon Draco was half-naked too, his erection straining against his trousers, every inch of him desperate to touch Potter.

They kissed again, and Draco slid his tongue into Potter’s mouth, breaching his lips with relish and letting Potter suck greedily. Draco slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Potter’s trousers, searching to touch more, to feel all of him. Potter made a noise of assent and buried his hand in Draco’s hair, gathering a fistful to draw Draco’s head back. He nibbled and sucked at Draco’s neck, trailing red marks as he made his way from jaw to collarbone. 

Draco moaned loudly, dragging Potter’s trousers down inch by inch, until they could go no further because of their position. Potter rolled his hips against Draco, rubbing their erections together, and the delicious friction of the fabric soon became agonizing.

“I want you,” Potter said. “I don’t care about the bond.”

“Yes,” Draco answered and pulled Potter into another bruising kiss. He was ready, willing; the bonding spell didn’t matter. All that mattered was this moment and how they chose to use it.

Potter leaned in, and Draco lay back, pulling Potter down with a kiss. 

Then a flash of blinding light erupted in the room. They separated, squinting at the light, to find an otter floating about them. 

In Granger’s voice it said, “I found the painting.”


	9. 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interrupted in their activities, Draco and Harry remember they have things they're supposed to be doing. They go have a talk with some people who may know exactly what they're going through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was a bit mean, I admit. Hopefully you’ll forgive me! The tone of this one is a bit different. :) Thank you so much for the reviews and kudos! They mean so much to me. I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, please let me know if you did! <3
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 9](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/28114.html)

With trembling hands, Draco scrawled out the message to his mother. Potter’s owl, a beautiful barred owl named Deirdre, clicked her beak at Draco and stuck out one leg. She ruffled her feathers, nagging him to finish. He cast her a look, too unsteady to do much else, and fastened the letter with magic. Certain his fumbling fingers would leave the letter poorly tied, at least this way it would actually get to his mother. It was already late, given he’d forgotten to send it earlier due to—reasons involving Potter.

Deirdre hooted once and made off with the letter, flying out toward Sweden or somewhere in that general area. Potter had assured Draco that Deirdre could find his mother wherever she might be, that he had excellent luck with his owls, but Draco wasn’t convinced.

After all, nothing else seemed to be going as expected tonight.

Leaning against the side table where he wrote the letter, Draco braced himself to stop the shaking. His body felt as though he was under the influence of potion withdrawal—which, in a manner, he supposed he was. Potter was in another room, apparently contacting Granger via floo, and the distance between them felt tangible and deadly.

Draco tried not to think on that last word too much, and instead, his mind helpfully provided him with a replay of the scene Granger’s Patronus interrupted. His skin immediately grew hotter, his trousers too tight, his eyes glazing. Draco tried to swallow, and instead only remembered the feel and taste of Potter’s tongue in his mouth, of Potter’s hands on his body, of the way he felt with Potter on top of him.

Merlin, he was going to explode soon if Potter didn’t come back. Although he would probably still explode the moment Potter did return. Draco couldn’t tell what option was worse. Or better.

His mind was clouded with confusion and lust, and Draco could barely breathe for the strain it put on him. He had never wanted someone this badly in his entire life. He had never wanted _anything_ this badly. It felt as though Draco didn’t exist but for wanting Potter, for needing to touch him, and kiss him, and—

Something glinted on the floor amid Draco’s robes. And then he remembered. The cordial Weasley had given him.

Rushing to his robes, Draco pulled the cool blue bottle from the folds and held it aloft. In the low light of the hearth fire, the liquid glinted like icicles at twilight. Draco searched the room for a glass, a bowl, anything he could use as a goblet. Finding nothing but a set of antique furniture that didn’t at all seem to be Potter’s taste, Draco decided casting aside etiquette in order to drink directly from the bottle was preferable to spontaneously bursting into flames.

He uncorked the top, releasing a soft hiss and a curl of frost on the air. With a desperate hope that Weasley was not cruel enough to trick Draco and Potter in this time of desperate need, Draco knocked his head back and took a long drink. The liquid was somewhat expected—cool and minty with a hint of thyme and citrus. It cooled Draco’s throat the way cold water does on a hot day. But once it reached his belly, it did little else.

He waited and waited and finally felt the edges of his need soften, curl, and fade. It was still there, the agonizing pull and the desperate hunger for Potter, but it was as though it was caged, wrapped in a rapidly thawing blanket of ice. At least it gave him enough clarity of mind to breathe again.

Potter returned to the room, his eyes sharp with the hunger that nearly consumed Draco. He advanced like a predator, like a cat about to pounce, and Draco nearly snapped, nearly let himself become prey. Instead, at the last moment, he held out the bottle to Potter.

“Drink,” he said, urgently. “It will help. A bit.”

Potter paused, a moment of clarity amid the cloud of need, and took the bottle. A few swigs later, he gasped and fell into the sofa, breathing normally again.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, considering the bottle. It was more than half-empty now, and the thought alone terrified Draco. 

“Weasley,” he said, “older one. He gave it to me while you talked with Granger’s husband.” One of these days he might have to use their given names. Today was not that day. “Said it might help take the edge off, but it’s temporary.”

Potter nodded vaguely and set the bottle aside. He looked up at Draco with an indecipherable expression. It made no sense to Draco, seeing Potter look at him that way. Where did it come from? The softness in his eyes, the revelry on his lips, they had no place on Potter’s face. Not facing Draco. 

_It’s the rings. Everything is twisted._

“Spoke to Hermione,” Potter said, and the moment snapped, vanishing. “She seems to think it’d be best if we went to the painting right away. She thinks the bonding magic is getting worse, stronger.” 

Draco cocked his head. “I wonder why she would think that.”

Potter laughed and said, “what? This isn’t how all your first dates go?” And Draco’s heart nearly stopped. The smile on Potter’s face was dazzling as he sidled up to Draco to Apparate. 

“Yes, this is just an average date for me,” Draco drawled sarcastically.

“Wh—average?” 

But they popped away, swirling toward their destination. Draco’s face was split in a smile like he hadn’t done in years. It was the kind of smile he couldn’t hide, not even once they’d arrived and Potter caught him doing it. 

They held each other a moment, Draco smiling as he was, and Potter laughing at the sight of it, at the ridiculousness of their jokes, and Draco nearly kissed him again. Until he saw where they were.

The smile vanished, the joy in his chest dwindling like collapsed snakeskin, when his eyes fell on the site where Granger found the painting.

The grounds sprawled out before him, still green as ever with rolling fog, but overgrown, untended, unkempt. In the distance, the massive stone structure stood looming, ominous, but hollow—like a ruined castle or abandoned buildings. They had presence once, but no longer.

Malfoy Manor. Home.

“The painting is here?” Draco asked, the gravity stolen from his breath. His words were breathy, barely audible. 

“The Ministry never managed to remove it from the wall,” Potter explained, his tone somewhat awed. “It looks like no one’s been here in ages. I guessed you might not want to live here anymore, but—” and then, as though he’d just realized, he turned to Draco. “You haven’t been back, have you?”

Draco shook his head, looking at the wreck of his past, rolled out in front of him like a nightmare made real. 

“Not since they took it,” he said. It had been years.

“But it’s yours,” Potter said. “I thought you’d—”

“It’s not,” Draco said abruptly, a lump growing in his throat. The good of the cooling cordial was quickly wearing away. The pull was growing again but different this time. “It’s not mine. The Ministry never gave it back. Said it got caught up in a mess of paperwork and bureaucracy.”

“But you were pardoned, and—” Potter heaved a deep sigh, ragged at the edges and dark in the centre. He took Draco’s hand, startling him slightly, and nodded toward the Manor. “C’mon. We’ve got to meet Hermione.”

Draco followed Potter up the path to his own ancestral home, wondering if memories could made ghosts, if he would relive every moment of the war once he stepped through those doors. A small voice at the back of his mind reminded him Potter had been here once before. He knew that too well.

Potter and Granger and Weasley—they’d all visted the Manor once, by force. Granger had been tortured here. 

Draco swallowed thickly, crossing the threshold into his home as one might enter a dragon’s keep. With trepidation and not a small amount of caution. But inside the main hall stood Granger, hands on her back to support her ample belly. She turned when they entered.

“Oh, good, you’re here. You both look—” she paused, eyes wide, and grimaced slightly, “awful.” Potter glared at Granger who only shrugged in response. “According to the records—and let me tell you, going through them was the pleasant stroll it should have been; I’ve got words for the Ministry in regards to their record-keeping—the painting is still housed in its original location at Malfoy Manor. Apparently, they were unable to counter the effects of the sticking charm used upon it, but I suspect it had more to do with the subjects of the painting not wanting to be moved. Magical artwork is a much more complex and interesting field than most people expect.”

“The subjects can stop the painting being moved?” Potter asked. Granger nodded.

“It wasn’t the only painting in the Manor with that kind of magic, either. I suspect most of the paintings at Hogwarts have similar magical signatures, as well. At least the portraits that lead to the House common rooms and the Headmasters’ portraits.”

“I suppose they’ve grown to prefer the solitude,” Draco said, remembering his encounter with Perseus and Helena. “They’ve got each other. What else really matters after all these years?”

Potter looked over at Draco, who caught his eye, and it was then Draco became aware they were still holding hands. They held a moment longer, then released each other gently, slowly, as though they never actually meant to. Granger studied them closely, her eyes searching, then coughed quietly.

“The records were not specific as to a location,” she went on, “as I said, sub-standard, which means that you, Malfoy, are the best guide we’ve got. Lead the way.”

Unsure of where walking these old halls might take him, Draco set off down the right-hand hallway. The corridors were long tunnels of hollow shells, the echoing of their footsteps on the dusty ground the only sounds to pass through these walls in years. Here and there, along the way, there were paler spots on the stone where paintings and tapestries were once on display. An empty pedestal, or a barren shelf, or sometimes an open doorway to a cavernous, gutted room were the only marks that this was once a house, a home, rather than a mausoleum.

As they turned down a set of hidden stairs, they came upon one of the portraits Granger mentioned. An image of his great-great-great-uncle Matthias, the portrait was determinately stuck to the wall where others had let themselves go. Matthias was always a snob—even as far as Malfoy history was concerned. When Granger and Potter passed, he roused and began to yell obscenities.

“MUDBLOOD FILTH!” he bellowed, and the words echoed in the empty stairwell, reverberating into the core of Draco’s bones. “DISEASE-RIDDEN HALF-BLOOD! YOU STAIN THE VERY GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET WITH YOUR DIRTY, IMPURE BLOOD!”

Draco stopped dead, his shoulders squared and stiff. He stood to his full height, his chin tilted back and to the side, his gaze as cold as the heart of the arctic. 

He faced the painting of his ancestor and said, “what impudence you show in the face of a Malfoy, Lord and Heir of this estate. How _dare_ you speak in such a manner to _my_ guests. This Manor and everything in it belong to _me_. You are _nothing_ but a roll of canvas and a few splashes of paint, not worth the magic that keeps you there.” He looked at the painting in disgust, and his ancestor stared back in shocked horror. “Your purpose in this Manor is to serve and honour _me_ , and yet you abuse my guests and damage my calm. You will first disabuse yourself of the notion that you have anything of value to say in my presence, or the presence of any of my guests, and second you will apologize to Mr. Potter and Mrs. Weasley and beg their forgiveness,” and Draco paused to ensure his words landed where they should, “or so help me, I will burn your portrait to the ground and have the peacocks urinate on your ashes.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and Draco felt both Potter’s and Granger’s eyes on him. Matthias gaped, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before turning his attention back to Potter and Granger.

“Mr. Potter, Mrs. Weasley,” he said, his tone as humble and apologetic as it was possible for a bigoted painting to be, “may I offer my most humble apologies for my inappropriate and reprehensible manner. As honoured guests of the Lord of the Manor, you deserve all my deference and respect. I beseech your forgiveness.”

Potter and Granger stared and blinked in response. Granger’s jaw was tight as she nodded to the painting, but when she looked at Draco, her eyes were clear and searching. Potter said nothing, nodded vaguely to the painting as well, and only stared at Draco. A creeping fear sprouted in Draco’s chest, but he tried to ignore it. He wasn’t sure he liked the way Potter looked at him now.

“You live another day,” Draco told the painting. “Now get out of my sight.”

Matthias vanished from his portrait, likely to go annoy some other painting in the Manor, and Draco slumped. He pressed fingers to his temples, a headache blooming behind them.

“Malfoy,” Potter began, but Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it.

“My father’s dead,” he said starkly. “I’m Lord of the Manor now and control everything in it. The magic tied to the grounds is tied to me, to my command.” Then, remembering his fear of Matthias as a child, he laughed bitterly. “I don’t think anyone has ever talked to Matthias that way. I didn’t even know I could.” He turned to look at Granger and Potter finally, more nervous than he expected to be. “I’m sorry. This is my legacy.”

Potter and Granger continued only to stare at him, and Draco began to squirm beneath their scrutiny. Finally, after much too long, Granger turned to Potter and said, “you were right.”

“That was nearly more terrifying than Mrs. Weasley when she’s angry,” Potter said, and Granger laughed.

“You had the painting call me Mrs. Weasley,” she said suddenly to Draco. Hand on her belly, she tilted her head. “I’m not sure how to feel about that, actually. Am I turning into Molly?”

Potter snorted and dodged the question, and Draco felt foolish for being so nervous. Potter caught his eye, and Draco felt himself losing control of his feelings.

“The painting we want is this way,” he said, and continued down the stairs. At the base, there was a wall that wasn’t a wall. The stones met in an imperfect way, leaving the slightest gap. Just enough to fit the tip of a wand.

Draco pressed the tip of his wand to the gap, pouring shapeless magic into his movement, and drew the wand upward. As he did, the stones shuddered and shifted, pulling away, one by one, until the passage was opened. It was small, smaller than he remembered, and he didn’t think any of them could pass through it.

“Allow me,” Granger said, and flicked her wand with the other held open almost like a shield. She guided the edges of the passage slowly, carefully, shrinking the stones around the passage entry to accommodate the movement. After a few moments, the passageway had grown large enough to fit all three of them.

Draco stood in the opening, unsure if he was capable of stepping through. The last time had ended badly. He’d not been ready to speak with Perseus and Helena. He still may not have been. Part of him thought he never would.

But Potter’s hand on Draco’s back gently urged him forward. He walked down the passage and into the room at the end. It was slightly larger than he remembered, but it had been full up with paintings and abandoned things then. Now it stood empty save for the painting on the wall.

Laying still against a weeping willow tree, Perseus and Helena were asleep. Helena, head resting on Perseus’s chest, held her hand over his heart. His head tilted down to rest atop her head, and they cradled each other in slumber. Watching them sleep, Draco thought he’d never know this kind of love. He wasn’t sure anyone did, anymore. It was the love of fairy stories and romances. Not real life.

He must have disturbed the air or the quiet, because Perseus and Helena opened their eyes in the slow manner of emerging from a dream. They gazed at him in wary silence getting carefully to their feet. She was endlessly in her wedding robes, a soft gold adorned with lace and silk. He wore formal, ritual robes, heavy with purples and silvers. They held each other as they took him in, and Draco stared back wordless, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and barely managed to add, “I need your help.”

They pulled back together, as though they might flee, but Potter stepped into the room behind Draco. As one, Perseus and Helena looked at him, then back to Draco, and finally to each other.

“It’s a bit tight, Hermione,” Potter called to her. He stepped next to Draco to consider the painting, crossing his arms over his chest. In doing so, he flashed the ring he wore, and Helena gasped.

“Our rings,” she whispered, her voice breathy as though she’d kept it too long. “You’re wearing our rings.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “We are bonded.” And Helena looked as though she might cry. Perseus’s face lightened with a smile.

“How?” he asked, and they seemed overjoyed for the knowledge. Draco, feeling as though he betrayed them, looked to Potter.

“It was an accident,” Potter said after a moment. “We didn’t know the ring would still work.” 

Perseus and Helena shared another glance, studying Draco and Potter. They seemed confused.

“We,” Draco began, “we were hoping you might help us undo the bonding.” The portraits looked on, still more confused than before.

“Undo it?” Helena asked. “Are you certain you want that?”

Taken aback, Draco shook his head. “It wasn’t an intentional bonding,” he said. “We don’t know each other that well. In fact, for many years, we were rivals. We don’t have a love like yours.” As he said it, Draco felt something twinge inside him. Potter seemed to feel it too.

The lovers considered held each other closely, their gazes piercing Draco to his soul. 

“Not many see love as clearly as we do,” Helena said. “They go their entire lives never realizing it’s in front of them.” She leaned into Perseus. “If you should like to break the bond, the only way is through the Keeper.”

“Who was your Keeper?” Potter asked. 

“Cygnus Black,” Perseus said. “And the Key to it would be passed on through the eldest male of the bloodline. Who is the eldest male Black alive today?”

Potter’s shoulders dropped, his expression darkened. 

“Sirius Black was the eldest male,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “He died years ago. There are no other male Blacks.” 

Draco reached out to Potter, his hand brushing Potter’s fingers only slightly. The touch invigorated him and seemed to calm Potter’s mind. Then it struck him.

“Would a son born to a Black daughter still count?” Draco asked.

“Any direct descendent of a Black.” 

“That would be me, then,” he said, a spark of hope and a rush of fear filling him. “How do I find the key?”

Perseus and Helena shook their heads. “You cannot find the key,” she said. “It is magic passed in the blood. You would simply know the Key, by the touch of the rings and the feel of the magic in them. It cannot be learned.”

A war of different emotions flooded Draco. An overwhelming sense of doom, of helplessness, and the slightest flicker of hope all at once assaulted him. 

“How can I not know it?” he asked, more to himself than anyone else. 

“We do not know,” Perseus said. “Perhaps there is another Black, older than you, still out there.”

Draco and Potter shared a look, and Potter shrugged heavily.

“I guess we’ve got to search the Black family tree,” he said, but Draco wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you for your help,” Potter told the couple in the painting and passed back through the passage. Draco made to follow him but stopped.

“How—who is responsible for killing you?” Draco asked, knowing he’d never get another chance. Perseus and Helena held each other closer, the love between them radiating off the painting.

“We do not know,” Helena said. “We were painted before that night and have no knowledge of it. But it does not matter.”

Alarmed, Draco shook his head. “How can it not matter? It’s the reason you didn’t get to live out your lives together.”

Perseus shook his head. “But we did. We are living out our lives together. Not in the way we had hoped, but in a manner still. The past has little impact on our love or lives,” he said. “We were made of the love between us, and that is all that matters.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair. “But you never talked to another Malfoy. You refused to talk to me the last I saw you.”

Helena gave him a look his mother had given him many times as a child. “Even paintings can have suspicions. But it is of no matter now.”

Draco didn’t think he understood. “Why talk to me now?”

Perseus grew solemn. “The Malfoy line travelled a dark and narrow path for many years.” He gave Draco an appraising look. “Perhaps now it is finally making its way back toward the light.”

Draco swallowed hard, almost embarrassed by the words, and made to leave.

“It was wonderful to see a descendent of my family,” Helena said. “Take care of him, please.” Draco looked at her over his shoulder to find her smiling mysteriously. “You’ll never know love like the kind a Peverell can give you.”


	10. 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco try to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew trying to get to sleep would be so difficult for these two? >:D Thanks so much for the reviews and the kudos! I’m so happy and so grateful to all of you! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as always, please let me know if you do! <3
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 10](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/28308.html)

The entranceway to the Manor was meant to be glorious. When Draco was growing up, it was always filled with light—the floating chandelier giving off the impression it was crafted of diamonds. The floors would gleam at the edges of the thick, opulent carpet, the designs on which Draco often found himself tracing with his toy trains and dragons. The portraits on the walls in the entrance were the most beautiful and detailed of all the paintings in the Manor, and the subjects were of the highest esteem. Armand Malfoy, original owner of the property, was featured in the largest portrait and the first a visitor might see upon entering.

Draco remembered playing in the entrance, waiting for guests he might otherwise not be allowed to see. He remembered the various expressions on their faces that indicated they’d visited the Manor for the first time—surprise, masked awe, and haughty humility. Only one person had ever passed through that entrance a welcomed guest and shown a different emotion. Snape’s expression, that first time, was veiled derision. 

Then the memories changed. The entrance was less lavish, less stately. The chandelier was dimmed, the floating lights put out. The paintings sat tight-lipped in their pale, poorly lit frames. The carpet, still sumptuous, felt thinner under Draco’s feet. Voldemort subdued the warmth in every space. Awe and pride were replaced by fear and nausea in Draco’s memories. 

Now, as Draco stood in the entrance way to his childhood home, he felt none of the pride, none of the fondness, but none of the fear either. Staring at the empty walls, the cavernous ceilings, and the void where the chandelier once floated, Draco felt nothing. The carpet was long gone, the floors had long-since lost their shine, and Draco thought he felt as empty as the entrance.

There was little left in the Manor that could make it his home now.

Potter stood off to one side with Granger, discussing what they’d learned, but Draco could scarcely pay attention. He was overcome with flashes of his life in this place, with fragments of emotions. The pull in his stomach drew him to Potter, but it was all he could feel clearly. Everything else was a haze, and Draco found himself using that clarity—the crisp edge of the pull and the insistent tug of desire—to ground himself.

“I do wish I could have asked Perseus and Helena some questions of my own,” Granger was saying. “Do you suppose they’ll be more likely to talk now they feel their bond has been fulfilled?”

The question was addressed to Draco, which he realized a moment too late. He snapped back to attention and said, “Unclear. They hadn’t talked to anyone in centuries before today, and only now because they saw Potter and I wearing the rings.” He thought for a moment, then added, “but if anyone has a chance, I suppose it would be you. Perseus believed deeply in the mixing of magical and non-magical bloodlines to improve the power and strength of magic. A muggleborn with a pure-blood husband and a half-blood baby would certainly interest him. But I would be prepared for some intensely personal questions, if you do decide to interview him.”

Granger waved off the warning. “There is little I consider personal enough I wouldn’t be willing to tell him in exchange for the wealth of historical knowledge he and Helena can provide.” 

Draco cast her a look, one eyebrow raised, and found Potter was doing the same. A small smirk on Potter’s face told him this was not an unexpected answer from Granger.

“Maybe discuss that with Ron first, yeah?” Potter suggested, but Granger only waved him off as well. “You should head home, Hermione. We all should.” As he spoke, Potter sidled up to Draco, but it seemed as though he was unconscious of the action. Draco’s eyes lingered on Potter a moment, the pull within him intensifying. The cordial was wearing off quickly now. Draco felt heat rising under his collar.

“Are you sure you’ll both be able to—er—make it through the night?” Granger asked, the unspoken words being _without shagging each other senseless?_

Potter’s hand hung within an inch of Draco’s, his fingers beckoning Draco’s. Without thinking, Draco laced his fingers with Potter’s, drawing his thumb gently over Potter’s.

“We’ll be fine, Hermione,” Potter said, but she was unconvinced, eyeing their hands. 

“Take this,” she said, pulling a large bottle from a very small bag she carried over her shoulder. “It’s a sleeping draught, just strong enough for the night. Take one dose each, and try to sleep in different rooms, if you can.” 

“When did you brew this?” Potter asked, taking the bottle. 

“While I was waiting for the Ministry owl about the location of the painting.”

Draco flipped through his mental catalogue of potion recipes and asked, “Do you ever eat, Granger? Or sleep, for that matter?”

She offered only a mysterious smile and said, “have a nice night, boys.”

With a pop, she was gone. Draco stared at the empty space, leaning in to Potter without noticing.

“I thought women in the third trimester weren’t meant to apparate?” he said. Potter’s arms settled around Draco’s waist and pulled him close.

“That’s what Mrs. Weasley said, but according to Hermione, that’s just ‘pure-blood wizarding twaddle’,” Potter said. “Shall we?” 

Draco arched into Potter, his hands settling at Potter’s waist, and smiled. They disapparated, but somewhere along the way to their destination, Draco found himself kissing Potter. At the back of his mind, a tiny voice warned this was a recipe for splinching, but Draco couldn’t hear it over the sound of his heart beating.

They stumbled when they arrived, their mouths still fastened to one another’s. Potter’s hands dragged at Draco’s clothing, and Draco buried his fingers in Potter’s thick, messy hair. The kiss was fervent, yearning, but they managed to pull apart. 

Foreheads pressed together, they stared into each other’s eyes. Potter laughed softly, his lips red.

“I like snogging you,” he said, “a lot.”

Draco laughed and made a sound of agreement, but inside he tried to remind himself it was the bond. The spell demanded consummation; it would lie to them to get it. He couldn’t trust to any of his feelings, no matter how real, or how _right_ they felt.

The released each other slowly, as if in a dream, and Draco raked his fingers through his hair, sure he was going mad.

“I supposed we should take that potion,” he said, but Potter tilted his head.

“Well, yeah,” he answered, “but I thought maybe you’d want to check the Black Family Tapestry first.”

Confused, Draco looked around himself. They were in the same room they had been before Granger’s patronus arrived. He hadn’t recognized it then, but now the memory was taking shape.

“This is 12 Grimmauld Place,” he said in a whisper. “The Black House.”

Potter nodded. “Sirius left it to me,” he said. “Though I s’pose you’ve got claim to it too.” Potter shrugged and set the potion bottle on the table. He watched Draco move around the room as if in fog. Draco ran his fingers over the doorframes and the antique furniture, remembering. “It all came with the house,” Potter added, a hint of defense in his voice. “Not really my tastes, most of it, but I don’t really live here.”

Draco spun and asked, before he could stop himself, “why? Where do you live?” He immediately cursed himself, feeling the fool. If Potter hadn’t taken him to where he lived, then why should he give Draco that information? Obviously he didn’t trust Draco.

But Potter surprised him. “I live in Godric’s Hollow. In my parents’ old house.” A soft sadness tinged his words. “That was left to me too.”

Draco looked away, unable to hold Potter’s gaze after a comment like that. His hand on the doorframe, he mumbled to himself, “we are what we inherit.”

“You all right?” Potter asked.

“I’ve been here before,” Draco told him, a small token to repay Potter’s honesty.

“Really?” Potter seemed genuinely interested. “With your mum, I guess?”

Draco nodded. “I was about four. We came for my great-aunt Walburga. She was dying.” The memory washed over him, the dusty rooms and the narrow halls. He had walked as though on glass, terrified to make a sound, following on his mother’s heels as closely as was appropriate. She towered over him, then, cutting a long, lean line down every doorway. 

His aunt was bedridden, kept mostly sedated by potions and specialized Healers. The house-elf, Kreacher, was at her side constantly. He’d terrified Draco too, nothing at all like the Malfoy house-elves. The bedroom was cold, curtained in heavy black drapes over a mahogany four-poster bed. At the centre of the bed lay his great-aunt, and Draco remembered looking over the edge expecting to see a giant of a woman, the way his mother had talked about her. 

But she was tiny. A small, crumpled figure coated in wrinkles and wispy grey hair. Her face was knotted with anger and disappointment, and for the one moment she roused, she terrified them all by spewing hateful nonsense. Her words were nearly meaningless, but none of those present—other nieces and nephews more distantly related than Narcissa—seemed unaffected. They did try, mind. True pure-bloods, making the effort to look unmoved in the face of madness.

Narcissa had lifted Draco to say his goodbyes, to pay his respects to a dying matriarch he’d never known. She swatted at him as he came close, and the smell of dried flowers and decay reached him. His mother pulled him away quickly, bidding farewell to her aunt, and then she whisked him away home. Bought him a new toy.

Draco thought the toy was meant to distract him from the experience, but he couldn’t remember what the toy had been. He supposed that was the point, in the end. Witnessing the hallmarks of pure-blood infirmity was a much more powerful image than the momentary joy of a new play-thing.

“There’s a portrait of her,” Potter said, and Draco remembered where he was and when. He blinked. “It’s behind a cloth with about a thousand muffling spells, but I can take it down if you’d like to see her.” 

“Sweet Salazar, no,” Draco said, alarmed, and Potter looked relieved. 

“This way then,” he said, and ushered Draco toward another room. The décor was much the same but for the tapestry. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, portrayed in a mural in the sitting room, was little more than a set of names Draco had mostly seen before. His mother’s pure-blood lineage was as important to him as his father’s. Though the Malfoy line was more prominent in the schooling of his youth, the Black family ancestry was taught to him in pieces. 

Mostly he remembered tales of pure-blood Blacks harming Muggles or Squibs, or Muggle-borns, doing great wizarding deeds, accruing wealth and status, and otherwise ignoring that Muggleborns and Half-bloods existed at all.

Faced now with the tapestry, Draco felt vaguely ill. Forgetting their history, so many of the names were followed by dates of death. He was reminded of the Malfoy tapestry, similar in many ways to this one, and how few were still alive there. Draco’s eyes fell to Sirius Black, blasted off the tapestry somehow, and Regulus Black, both dead, the last named descendants of the house.

Beneath them were no names—no children, no spouses, nothing. The dates of death told the story. They have had a chance to live. 

On his mother’s branch were more names, but still so many dead. His aunt Bellatrix, eldest of her sisters, bore the same date of death as her beloved—though Voldemort was not on the tapestry. Rodolphus Lestrange, Aunt Bella’s husband in name only, was also dead. Next to them were Draco’s parents. Beneath them was Draco.

A single name on a single branch, the letters gleamed, much newer than the others. He felt more alone than ever. Then he noticed it.

“Edward Remus Lupin,” Draco read aloud. His mother’s sister had a grandson. His fingers played over the letters of the name. “I’ve a cousin.”

“Yeah,” Potter said quietly, as Draco read and reread the name in awe. “He was born just before the Battle of Hogwarts. I—” he began then paused. Draco turned to face him. A sad smile played on his lips. “I’m his godfather.”

Exhaustion struck Draco suddenly, his head beginning to throb. There was so much, all in one day. He didn’t think he was equipped to deal with half of what he had learned and felt, but he wasn’t given a choice.

“I didn’t know,” he said, afraid to ask to see him. 

“He’s a bit lonely,” Potter said, after a moment. “He sees some of the Weasley kids from time to time, but I think he’d really appreciate getting to know family.” Draco froze, unwilling to fully accept what he was hearing. “If you want.”

Not trusting himself to speak, he nodded vaguely, glancing back at the tapestry. “He can’t be the answer we’re looking for, though. He’s younger than I am, so can’t be it.” He searched the tapestry again, but no other names popped up with the right timing. Everyone else was dead.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Draco said, his headache worsening. Potter came up behind him, fingers smoothing at Draco’s neck. He leaned Draco’s head against him, and the pain began to ease slightly.

“You were right earlier,” Potter said. “We should just take the potion and sleep. It’s been a long day.”

Then, light as a snowflake, Potter kissed the top of Draco’s head. Draco hummed softly, a feeling of delight settling in him, and angled his head to look at Potter. Potter smiled as Draco tilted his head back, catching Potter’s mouth in a kiss. They fell into it so easily, as though they’d been together forever. They kissed like lovers, like two halves of the same soul. 

Draco refused to let himself think about it, letting his mouth guide him. Potter deepened the kiss, pulling Draco in, and slowly, they exited the drawing room. The kiss grew more urgent, more insistent as they collected the sleeping draught, climbed the stairs, and sought out bedrooms. At the threshold of what Draco imagined was Potter’s chosen room, he stopped, broke the kiss, and looked into Potter’s eyes.

“Granger said different rooms,” he breathed. Potter ran a hand down Draco’s front and a trail of lightning followed under Draco’s skin.

“We should probably try that,” Potter said, though he didn’t seem to believe himself. Draco swallowed hard and tried to extricate himself from Potter’s grasp. For every inch he seemed to gain, Potter moved an inch closer. 

“This may be counter-productive,” Draco said, and Potter laughed, shaking his head. Visibly struggling, he released Draco and stumbled back into his room. He nodded to the next door over.

“You take that one,” he said. “It’s Regulus’s room.”

Draco nodded. “The potion?” 

Potter considered the bottle. “Maybe let’s try being in different rooms first and see if it’s bearable. Then we’ll take the potion. You can summon it from me.”

Draco nodded again. He made for the other room, but his feet moved as though filled with lead. Every step away from Potter was like walking against a tsunami.

Once he made it inside the room, he slammed the door and found himself immediately rushing to the wall. Pressed against it, the full line of his body against the wood, Draco realized it was the shared wall between rooms. His skin felt as though it was on fire, desperate for contact he could not get. He banged his head against the wall. He couldn’t sleep like this.

He walked back to the door, heart racing, and swung it open. Potter stood on the other side of the threshold, panting.

“This isn’t going to work.”

Draco grabbed him and kissed him and walked him backward to the first room. Draco trailed kisses down Potter’s neck, and the door closed behind them. They stopped at the edge of the bed, and Draco thought no bed in history had ever looked so inviting.

“Potion,” Potter said. “We should probably take it now.”

“Yes,” Draco said but couldn’t quite bring himself to stop kissing Potter’s neck. Potter leaned his head back, downing part of the potion, then he shoved it into Draco’s hands. Finding a strength he did not know he had, Draco pulled away, drank the rest of the bottle, and took three careful steps back. Casting a glance around the room, he found a small sofa. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured it into a cot and fell into it. “I will sleep here.”

“Good, yeah,” Potter said, collapsing into the four-poster bed. “That’s the same as different rooms…”

He trailed off, and already the potion took effect. Draco felt his world engulfed in blackness, the pull between them easing slightly. And then he was asleep.

It was as though only moments passed when Draco realized he was rousing. This bothered him little. He was more comfortable than he’d ever been. 

The blankets were warm and the mattress was supple. The haze of sleep began to dissipate, and Draco nuzzled against the pillow, hoping to get it back. Hair tickled his nose, and Draco reached up to brush it aside.

His fingers found skin, scalp, and massaged tiny circles into it. A satisfied hum followed.

“That’s amazing,” Potter murmured, and curled closer to Draco. His legs were entwined with Draco’s, their chests pressed together. Draco breathed in Potter’s hair.

Potter’s hands slid up and down Draco’s back. Again, their lips found one another in a slow, sensual kiss. It took a full minute of snogging and cuddling before they both realized what was happening.

But they parted differently. Instead of snapping back from one another, or moving apart as though in a dream, they ended the kiss with another, a small peck and a nuzzle and a smile.

“How did I end up here?” Draco asked, contentment evident in his voice.

“Must have happened in the night,” Potter said, green eyes bright. Draco kissed him again, wanting to suck the pleased smile from his lips. It didn’t work. It was still there when he pulled away. “How did we end up half-naked?”

That sparked panic, however little, and Draco glanced under the covers. Potter’s body, sliding against his, was clothed in only pants. His lean muscles were in plain view, his soft skin more delectable than Draco could have imagined.

“I still want you more than I can bear so we can’t have consummated the bond,” Draco said, and Potter blushed slightly. He hid the blush under a comment that nearly made Draco melt.

“What a shame it would have been,” he said. “I definitely want to be awake for that.”

A smirk pulled at Draco’s lips, and he leaned in for another kiss, throwing all his logic and reasoning to the wind. An inch away from Potter’s lips, and agony shattered Draco’s calm.

He jerked backward, hands to his temples as his head threatened to explode from the searing, screeching pain inside his skull. He screamed against the onslaught, and Potter was on all fours, hovering over Draco, begging him to be all right, to tell him what was the matter.

After a minute or so, the pain eased slightly, the cacophony in his mind faded, and Draco cracked one eye open, his palms still pressed to his head. Potter looked the picture of panic.

“Someone broke into my shop.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco search for clues as to who broke into Draco's shop and why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for the reviews and kudos! I appreciate them so much! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and as always, please let me know if you do! 
> 
> Also, I’ll be posting a little Christmas oneshot tomorrow to make up for some of the UST in this fic, haha! :) <3 Merry Christmas/Happy Holidays to all of the lovelies in the H/D fandom! 
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 11](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/28619.html)

The ground was littered with shards of glass, pieces of the life Draco had so meticulously built himself. It had grown cold overnight; the rain drizzled more than fell, but the cold sank into Draco’s bones. It wasn’t right to be so cold yet. The weather seemed more like late fall than early. But the dismal quality of the morning comforted Draco, as though the weather mourned with him the ruin of his world.

The door and windows to his shop were intact, though they might as well have been smashed, given the state of the interior. The display cabinets were in pieces, their contents strewn angrily across the ground. Glass crunched under the feet of too many aurors, too many witches and wizards who didn’t care a lick for him, but toddled about, _doing their jobs._ The sound of their scurrying, like excited children through crisply fallen snow, made Draco cringe. 

Above the crunching, he heard nothing but a dim, distant ringing. Their voices were muddled and muted, and the steady throb of his skull was his only reminder he wasn’t dreaming. Only Potter’s presence, close but not close enough, kept him calm.

He shut his eyes to the sight of the aurors and hit wizards collecting their data. Nothing would come of them. Nothing ever did. This wasn’t the first time Draco had been on the receiving end of a criminal attack, and most of the previous ones had been more violent than this. But not a single arrest was made in those cases. Not a single soul in Azkaban for their assault on Draco’s safety.

“What?” Draco said when he realized someone had been addressing him. He blinked around to find the female auror that had shown up with Potter and Longbottom the previous day. She looked skeptically, suspiciously even, at him. 

“Do you know if anything was taken?” she asked again, amber eyes narrowed. The makeup ringing her eyes was smudged on one side. Draco stared at the smudge, unseeing.

“Isn’t that your job?” he said before remembering himself. A hand found his back, heavy and supportive. He looked over to find Potter nodding gently in encouragement. “My apologies,” he said to her after a moment. “I’m still somewhat in shock.” She leaned back, chin up, and waited silently for him to continue. 

Draco stepped around her, travelling the line of his shop, taking careful stock of all his beautiful work, all his livelihood cast on the ground, broken and tarnished. He followed the wreckage to the back of his shop, to his workstation and his stock of unfinished projects. 

“There doesn’t seem to be anything taken—” he said, and his eyes landed on secure cupboard. “Except that.” His heart dropped, panic rising an edge inside him. He took several deep, forced breaths, and pulled open the secure door. But the usual tingle of magical wards was gone, as were the contents of the cupboard. “The Dragonstone.”

His strength deserting him, Draco fell into a nearby chair, head in his hands. Again, Potter’s grasp found him, steadying his shoulders bracing him against the onslaught of the day. Draco let his fingers slide down to Potter’s, caressing the length of them, searching out their strength. His fingertip passed over the bulk of the ring Potter wore, the match to his own, and Draco pulled away. He pushed off the chair and walked to the window to gaze out at the Alley, to see through the fog in his mind. Potter clouded everything.

“They stole only the Dragonstone?” the female auror asked. “Why would they take that and leave everything else?”

“It’s an extremely rare stone,” Potter supplied. “Even a manufactured one. And one that size—well, it would be worth a fortune. Only a handful of families could afford that kind of jewel now.”

“Which families?” 

“The Greengrasses, obviously,” Draco said, his voice distant to his own ears. The drizzling rain left streams down his windows, distorting the image beyond. “They commissioned it to begin with, though. It makes no sense for them to steal it.”

“The Parkinsons might have that much,” Potter said. “The Notts maybe as well.”

“No,” Draco said. “Theo’s family doesn’t have nearly enough to cover the cost of a Dragonstone. And Pansy’s family—well, they might, but it would be so far beneath them to steal. They’d never risk that mar on their reputation. There are no other families in Wizarding Britain with that kind of money anymore.”

“What about you?” the auror asked, and Draco spun to face her. 

“Fortier,” Potter hissed, but she continued.

“The Malfoys inherited all the remaining fortunes of the Lestrange line, as well as what little was left to you by Snape in his last will and testament, did you not?” She studied him like a jeweler studied stones, looking for inclusions, breaks, imperfections in the smooth exterior. 

“Yes,” Draco said. “But by that same line of reasoning Potter should be on your list. He inherited all the Black fortune, as well as the Potter fortune from his parents. He also has enough property to set him in line with the richest pureblood families in Britain.”

“Auror Potter doesn’t have connections to the dark arts,” Fortier went on. Potter looked angrily between them.

“I don’t think that’s relevant here—” he began, but Draco cut him off.

“I don’t have it anymore,” he said, and Potter fell silent. “The fortune. The Ministry seized all Malfoy assets after the war. Aurors keep such poor track of their own records.”

Contrary to what Draco expected, Fortier regrouped and pressed stubbornly onward. “Even better. Motive. You’ve lost all your money and status, so perhaps you thought you could orchestrate a robbery for some kind of insurance and sell off the stone to double your profits.”

Potter frowned deeply, and Draco just heaved a humourless laugh.

“How does that benefit me?” he asked. “The Greengrasses were _paying_ me to make the stone for them, which also consequently means I can _fabricate_ a stone like this at my leisure. Why would I go to the trouble of trying to steal it from myself, especially given that I am uninsured thanks to my criminal record?” Draco sneered, his lip curled. “And while I’m poking holes in your plot, perhaps you can explain to me how I orchestrated this idiotic plan while attached to Potter.”

Fortier glared at him for a moment, two beats as she searched his eyes, then her face broke into a smile.

“Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” she said. “My apologies for the treatment, but I had to clear you of suspicion. Procedure, you understand.”

Draco blinked, and Potter sighed in relief. 

“That was a test?” he said, angrier now than before. 

“Afraid so,” she said. “Based on my assessment of the crime scene, the Dragonstone was the suspect’s prime goal, but there’s a lot of rage here, Mr. Malfoy. I have to come to the conclusion that whoever did break in knows you personally.”

Draco froze, eyes wide. His mind raced with possibilities and questions. “Knows me?”

“There’s too much anger here for this not to be personally motivated,” Potter said, considering the scene himself. “If the Dragonstone was the prize, why break all your displays? Why trash the place? It would have taken time, and this kind of heist would have had to be done quickly. It was an unnecessary risk.”

“Precisely,” Fortier agreed. “And you said yesterday the wards on this place were state of the art, no? They would have had to be dismantled very carefully not to set off the alarms earlier.” She paced around, crunching glass as she did, and Draco felt salt in the wound. “Possibly even in installments. Have you noticed anything strange lately?”

Draco crossed his arms over his chest. “I was bonded to Potter yesterday, and my life has been nothing but a steady tumble downward ever since. I’ve not got a great frame of reference for ‘strange’ lately.”

Potter caught his eye, but where Draco expected to see Potter smiling, enjoying the ridiculousness of their scenarios, he found sad eyes and a shadowed expression.

“The mobile,” Potter said suddenly, pulling the Muggle contraption from his pocket. “It rang in here yesterday. Wards that powerful should have cut out all electronic signals. Unless someone had already begun taking them down.”

A reel of moving images played out in Draco’s mind at the suggestion, his every movement from the previous day lain out before his mind’s eyes in a cloud of chaotic emotions. Try as he might, he could barely piece together the morning, the time before Potter had arrived on his doorstep with that ring. It was as though nothing that did not feature Potter no longer mattered.

“Draco? Draco!” A woman’s voice cut through the commotion of the crime scene, and Draco turned to find Daphne Greengrass rushing toward him. His blood ran cold. “It is true, isn’t it? You’ve been robbed, Draco?”

“Daphne,” he said, trying for professional and contrite. “I’m afraid it is true, but I am cooperating fully with the aurors to recover the lost merchandise, and I assure you I will immediately set to manufacturing another stone for your order—free of charge naturally—”

Daphne pursed her lips, slapped Draco across the face and grasped him roughly by the shoulders. Her long hair flowed in rose-gold waves about her. The ermine fur collar puffed around her like bird feathers. Potter rushed to his intervene, but Daphne ignored him.

“How dare you, Draco,” she said, apparently deeply hurt. “I don’t care about the bloody stone. I came the moment I heard. I thought _you_ might have been injured or worse. I’ve told you you shouldn’t live above your shop. For your own safety, Draco, it’s ridiculous. This place is much too obvious a target if someone wanted to hurt you. Why won’t you let me help you?”

Draco’s tongue stilled in his mouth, his face draining of colour. Clearing his throat and attempting to regain his composure, he shrugged his robes straight and took Daphne’s hand.

“I appreciate your concern, Daphne,” he said. “I do. But I am fine, as you can see. I wasn’t here when this occurred, in fact—”

Daphne’s eyebrows made for her hairline. “Where were you then?” And the intrigue in her tone reminded Draco why he refused her offer to live on her family’s grounds. “Not out with someone special, I hope, Draco. Astoria will be heartbroken.” Draco schooled his features to an impassable mask, feeling Potter’s eyes on him, burning through him to Daphne. “My parents have told you they’d honour the contract between our families, and Astoria is more than willing. I don’t understand why you insist on working when you could be married and wealthy again in an instant.” She brushed off Draco’s shoulders, in her loving way, but Potter stepped between them.

“I’m afraid he’s already spoken for,” Potter said, his words hard. Daphne looked at Potter with wide, doe eyes as Potter displayed his ring for her to see. “He’s married to me.”

Draco shut his eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath, counting the beats before—

“Draco!” Daphne squealed. “Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” The smile that split her face was so large Draco thought her other features might disappear into it. “I shall forgive you for not inviting me, but you simply _must_ allow us to throw you’re a proper celebration! It’s the only way, Draco.”

Potter, stunned at her reaction, suddenly turned a brilliant shade of crimson. 

“As I said in my letter, Daphne. Yesterday was a trying day. Perhaps we can discuss marriage celebrations at another time.”

Fortier, seeing her opportunity to interject, pulled Daphne aside for questioning, thereby freeing Draco and Potter from her attention. Draco exhaled deeply, with all the relief of certain doom evaded. Potter, for his part, looked as though he’d been struck by a Bludger.

“Ms. Greengrass, can you possibly tell me why you commissioned the Dragonstone?” Fortier asked. “It may be relevant to the case.”

“Why?” she said, somewhat confused. “For the status, obviously. The Dragonstone has been the symbol of wizarding royalty for centuries. Even a manufactured one holds magnificent power.”

Fortier perked up. “Power? In what way?”

Daphne seemed baffled by Fortier’s lack of knowledge on the subject but answered the question with grace no less. 

“Royal families once used Dragonstones as magic amplifiers,” she said, and Draco remembered her in their History of Magic classes. She’d been the only student awake most days. “They function in a similar manner to wands. A wand focuses and condenses magic to one specific point to facilitate the use of it. A Dragonstone, when cut correctly and worn by a witch or wizard, can amplify their core magic, funneling it more effectively into a wand. Royal families used the stones as symbols of their right to rule. Only someone who had faced a living dragon to retrieve a Dragonstone could claim divine right to a kingdom. Today the stones offer mostly symbolic power, given our improvements in wand quality and core choice.”

“So it’s conceivable that whoever stole the stone may have been after the magical amplification properties?” Potter asked, but Daphne shrugged.

“A natural Dragonstone may have that power,” Draco said, “but there’s no telling if a manufactured stone could accomplish the same feat. There have been no tests done, no records on the subject.”

“Still, it seems like a strong motive to ignore the other jewels,” Fortier said. “Can you think of anyone at all that might want it for that purpose?”

Draco searched his mind, glancing at Daphne and Potter and finding no answers in their eyes. A flash of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes passed in his mind, and a thought struck him.

“The wards,” he said, suddenly. “There’s a fail-safe in the rune magic, in the event they’re dismantled by a third party.” Draco wracked his mind for the incantation. He set aside the boxes of his memories, the pain of the events of the last twenty-four hours, and his confusion regarding Potter. But Potter himself wouldn’t leave Draco’s mind no matter how hard he tried to box him away. His face lingered with Draco until he gave in and searched through his memories with Potter’s shining eyes overseeing him. 

The incantation came to him in a flash, and Draco pulled his wand to chant it. Slowly, one word at a time, performing all the precise wand movements, Draco laid out the runework of the wards before them on the air. Bit by bit, the magic was laid bare, shining and shimmering before his eyes.

“There,” Draco said, triggering the secret rune with the tip of his wand. As he did, a reel of images similar to the ones from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes played out, but it was only from the moment the wards were dropped. 

The four of them watched as a man with uneven, dark hair and heavily lidded eyes smashed the displays. He was short, but not so short he might stand out, and his skin was wan. There were virtually no remarkable features about him at all. Draco watched in silent fury as this man he’d never met and couldn’t know smashed his displays with all the malice of a child denied a sweet. 

“Is that—” Draco began, his mind piecing together a thought. Potter nodded.

“It is,” he said. “The unnamed man from the George and Ron’s ledger.” He turned to Draco, eyes falling on the rings they wore. “The cases are connected.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry asks Draco a hard question, and Narcissa returns to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter chapter today, but I think there are only two or three more chapters to finish this story, so that’s good! *throws confetti* There **may** be a slight delay for the next chapter as I was given a deadline to meet for my novel (fingers crossed!), but hopefully I will get the next chapter up roughly on time anyway. :D Thanks so much for all the reviews and kudos! They mean so much to me, and I love you all! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as, always, please let me know if you do!
> 
> And Happy Early New Year to everyone! <3
> 
>  
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 12](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/29091.html)

Draco watched in detached silence as they boarded up his shop with magical wards. The life and home he’d built for himself, erected brick by brick to make himself whole, was shattered and ruined by someone he didn’t know. His eyes lingered on the _closed_ sign in the front entrance as Potter apparated them away. The aurors had decided that the personal nature of the theft and destruction called for defensive measures. Draco wasn’t to be let out of Potter’s sight until the culprit was caught. Not that he could leave Potter’s sight if he had wanted to.

Potter’s role, now, was chiefly that of bodyguard to Draco, despite the fact that he had also been targeted by the suspect in question. But Draco found it best not to point out the obvious when it came to aurors.

They arrived back in Grimmauld Place, somewhat worse for the wear, in the bedroom they’d left that morning. The rumpled duvet, the disarranged pillows, and the discarded clothing from the previous night painted the picture of a sordid evening. His mind wandered back to the feel of Potter’s skin, his hair between Draco’s fingers, and the taste of him. The heat within him rose, steady and constant and not at all like the burning, raging flame from the previous times. This fire was lasting, settling in the bones—roasting embers rather than a flash fire.

“You all right?” Potter asked, his hand on Draco’s back, at the place where the heat began. 

Unaccustomed to answering these kinds of questions, Draco turned to Potter and studied his face. Open and compassionate, it was a Potter Draco had dreamed of in his youth, the Potter he’d wanted by his side. A friend, a loved one—not the enemy. 

“Why do you care about me at all?” Draco asked, blurting out his raw thoughts without thinking. He caught his tongue at the last second, but the damage had been done. Exhaustion and stress wore on him, it was clear. He never spoke without thought. Not anymore.

Potter’s face was a warzone of emotions, anger, hurt, and disbelief chasing themselves behind his eyes. He had never been good at hiding his feelings. Everyone knew that. 

Draco expected a snappy retort, a condemning remark, or even a dismissive comment. But Potter never did what was expected.

“Why won’t you let me?” 

“What?” was all Draco could muster.

“You’ve been fighting me every inch of the way, and I just don’t understand,” Potter said. His hair was wilder than usual, his shoulders square. He was ready for a fight.

“My apologies, Potter,” Draco said, “I was unaware you _wanted_ to be forcibly bonded to your childhood rival via cursed ring.”

Potter laughed a short, half-disbelieving sound. “No,” he said, “it’s more than that, and you know it. The ring is your excuse to ignore what else is going on here. I know a bit about bonding magic too. It can bind the body and the spirit, but not the heart. Not really. No magic can manufacture real love. Not even love potions. They’re only the best approximation of love magic can offer, but the person always knows, deep down. It doesn’t feel like this, it doesn’t feel—”

Draco advanced, his throat tight, “feel _what_?” he taunted, trying for sneering. His voice fell short, breaking slightly. Potter gave him a hard look.

“Right.” 

Draco shook his head and turned away, walking toward the wall. Distance was what he needed. Lots of it.

“I know you can feel it too,” Potter said, refusing to let him pull away. “I just don’t get why you’re so determined to deny it? This is what you were after when we were kids—me, my attention, my—”

“Don’t,” Draco said, turning. His entire body felt aflame with a different kind of tingling. It was the vibrating of fear and fury. “You don’t know what I wanted then, and you don’t know it now.”

“Then bloody tell me!” Potter was on him now, only inches away, and Draco remembered the Potter from Hogwarts, the anger and the hatred. He remembered the face of the boy he blamed for all the ills in his life. He remembered the boy who cut him to ribbons in the toilets that day, who left him with the only visible scars Draco had. 

“Why?” Draco snapped. “Why should you bloody want to know? I made your life hell in school, I insulted your friends, I endangered their lives. I’m the reason you lost your mentor; my family is the reason you lost your godfather. What could you possibly care for me?”

Potter pulled back a moment, eyebrows knitted together. “I haven’t forgotten. I haven’t forgotten anything. But I also don’t believe you’re the same person you were then. I was willing to bet you’d changed, become a different man than you were. But I was more right than I wanted to be.”

Draco swallowed hard, heart racing. “What does that mean?”

Potter looked disappointed now, and Draco felt worse than when Potter was angry. Disappointment hit harder. “You aren’t the bigoted child you were, but you’ve also lost all your fire. Where is it? Where is the Draco Malfoy who taunted me during Quidditch, who would have done anything to beat me to the Snitch? Where is the Draco Malfoy who dueled me, or the Draco Malfoy who pretended to be a Dementor, who made the bloody ‘Potter Stinks’ badges?” Potter pressed him against the wall, and Draco felt the coldness of it seep into his skin. “That Draco was a prat, he was annoying, but he was you. And he made me _me_. Where is the fire you had, then? Where did it go?”

Draco grew quiet. Potter was so close now, so insistently real and demanding answers. But that Draco was in the past, locked away somewhere he didn’t dare to look. Why did Potter want him to? Why would he want that Draco back? The one that could have taken everything from Potter and never blinked. The one that wanted Potter to suffer, and made it so.

“Voldemort took it,” he said after a moment. “Then aurors took some more. The rest I put out myself. It never brought me anything but pain and loss. It was the worst version of me.”

“Yes. But it was also the most _alive_ version of you,” Potter said, and place his palm flat against Draco’s chest to stop him moving. His eyes were trained on Draco’s lips. “I came to find you yesterday because I was bored, and you make life interesting. I wanted to know if you were changed and see if we could be friends now. I found something else—someone else in your place. There’s some good to this new Draco,” he said and licked his lips. “But I want some of that old Draco back. And I’m going to get it.”

Potter captured Draco’s mouth in a kiss, his splayed hand pinning Draco to the wall. Draco grabbed him and kissed back, his hands at Potter’s neck, angling his head back. Draco kissed him because he couldn’t not. He couldn’t deny Potter and couldn’t ignore how much he wanted him. Worse, he couldn’t deny how good it felt to have Potter want him, care for him, demand of him. 

It did feel right, but that only scared him more. This would never work out. 

Potter’s hand slid down Draco’s chest and stomach and settled insistently between his legs, cupping his erection and massaging it with his palm. Draco moaned and bucked into the movement, drawing his own hands downward, slipping beneath Potter’s robes to get at his bare skin.

“I want you,” Potter breathed into his mouth. “Hear me, damn it; I want you.”

Draco groaned and sucked on Potter’s lower lip, his fingers finding the length of Potter’s erection and stroking awkwardly under his pants. His mind was buzzing with thoughts and sensations, but Potter’s words echoed loudly against the din.

Bringing one hand around Potter’s waist, he drew down and lifted Potter’s leg to wrap around him, tight against his hip. Potter angled himself into the motion, thrusting against Draco against the wall. It was painful and fantastic, and Draco wanted to pretend the bond wasn’t responsible for anything, that there was no case, no robbery or attack. He wanted to pretend this was everything there would ever be—just Potter.

“Now,” Potter said, husky and heaving. “Want you now. Don’t care how.” 

Draco nodded, leading Potter backward to the bed as they kissed each other hungrily. They toppled and fell into the mattress, Draco landing atop Potter. Potter snaked his leg around Draco’s, arcing his hips. Stroking Potter’s thigh with one hand, Draco relished the sensation of Potter beneath him.

A tap at the window broke through the haze in Draco’s mind, but he dismissed it. He nibbled on Potter’s jaw and neck, pulling his robes open bit by bit. Potter raked his hands down Draco’s back and moaned as Draco sucked on his collarbone. 

The tapping at the window came back, insistent and constant. There was a loud hoot, more tapping, a crack, and finally a crashing sound.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Potter said to the ceiling as Draco pulled back, looking over his shoulder. An owl had broken through the window carrying its message. The large, elegant barn owl was one Draco immediately recognized.

After a tense moment of indecision and internal warring, Draco extricated himself from Potter’s legs and took the message from the owl. Potter pushed himself up on his elbows, glaring at the bird. Draco scanned the letter with a sigh. The mood was effectively ruined.

“I take it you aren’t coming back here,” Potter said, studying his face.

“It’s from my mother,” he said, and Potter sat up more fully. “She’s back in England and wants me to meet with her.” He stared at the owl, preening itself before it took off without a word. His mother did not anticipate any response other than ‘yes.’ The pull inside him called him back to Potter, but he sighed. “Perhaps it’s for the best, Potter,” he said, adjusting his clothing. “Evident by the constant interruptions, this bond just isn’t meant to be.”

Potter gave him a strange look. “That’s what you think?”

“We’ve had numerous chances to fulfill the bond,” Draco said, remembering them all in sudden, vivid detail, “and each time something has intervened. Almost seems definitive. Maybe the curse is working to our advantage.”

“Not the way I see it.” Draco gave him a look, and he said, “Think about it. These rings belong to Perseus and Helena. They were made for them. Perseus and Helena wanted _nothing more_ than to be together, but they were killed the moment they had that. If these rings are cursed, that curse was meant to destroy a love that was greater than death. If you think about it, there’s only one reason a curse would constantly intervene to stop us.”

Draco froze, eyes trained on Potter. Potter’s expression was clouded by unyielding. There was nothing in him that implied he was taking the piss. Not for a moment. He really believed it.

A chord struck in Draco’s heart, but he had no idea what to say. Speechlessness was not common for him, so he looked away. The ring on his finger weighed heavily on him. There were many things Draco told himself he’d never have, after the war. Love was at the top of that list. He didn’t believe he’d ever find love like his parents had, once. Even less likely would it be to find a love like Perseus and Helena. 

It didn’t exist in the real world anymore. Not after Voldemort. Not for Draco.

But here Potter was, asking him to believe in a love story that defined his youth. Asking him to be bonded forever. And Draco couldn’t let himself believe.

“We should go,” he said, after a while. “My mother will have answers we need, and she hates tardiness.”

With a sigh and a hand through his hair, Potter got to his feet and adjusted his robes. He encircled Draco in his arms, eyes tracing the lines of Draco’s face, and then nodded for Draco to apparate them away. Draco’s hands tightened around Potter, trying to push aside all the things said.

They appeared in a small alleyway outside a quiet tea shop, one of his mother’s favourites. Hidden in the heart of Edinburgh, the shop was known for it’s fantastic teas, elegant atmosphere, and private patrons. Draco stepped inside, Potter following behind, and found his mother sitting at a secluded table. He stopped beside her.

She took a sip of her tea, placed the cup on the saucer, then finally looked up at Draco and Potter. “Draco, darling,” she said, rising to her feet in one fluid motion. She wrapped her arms around her son, squeezing him close in a short but loving embrace, and then gestured for them both to sit, picking up the teacup.

Draco barely made it into his seat before she dropped the teacup on the table. 

“Draco,” she said sharply, her eyes on his ring. 

“Welcome back, Mother,” he said. “I got married.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Potter have a talk with Narcissa about marriage, bonding rituals, and House-Elves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lapse between chapters! I completed the revision to deadline but it left me completely drained. Ah well, back to fanfic-ing now! 8D Short chapter, but only two left!! Shouldn’t be any more delays for the last two, but apparently I’m terrible at this. 
> 
> Mental note for next fic: 1) Plan the whole thing before writing. 2) Set more rigorous writing schedule. *sigh* We shall see.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for all the support and reviews and kudos! They always make my day! <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, please let me know if you do! <3 
> 
>  
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 13](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/29492.html)

In the main sitting room of the Manor, just above the marble hearth, there had been a portrait. A gilded frame edged the canvas, lending the portrait an elevated, regal air. The palette was full of greens and blues with black accents—airy but elegant. At the centre of the portrait stood the two subjects, adorned in formal dress with opulent robes of silk, brocade, lace. Lucius Malfoy gathered up his newly named wife, rendered in delicate brushstrokes in the traditional style. Naricssa laughed in the portrait, rewarded Lucius with a kiss, and they gazed out upon their sitting room, together—happy.

Draco remembered standing before it, a young boy with starry eyes, and wondering at the day his parents had married. He wondered at the people in the portrait, versions of his parents he didn’t know. He found it difficult to imagine them existing before he did. He found it difficult to imagine not existing at all. 

But what always struck him was the liberation in the portrait, the way Lucius held Narcissa, the way she laughed, the way she kissed him. It was open and honest and without the strict regimentation of pureblood life. 

_”Love, Draco,”_ Narcissa had said. _”It’s love that liberates us, that lets our hearts sing. Like my love for you.”_

Back then, as a child, he had not understood how to love that way. He loved his parents, he was sure, but it did not feel terribly liberating. More of a thing one must do. He decided, then, he didn’t know how to love. He thought he might never feel it—not really. And every day’s worth of evidence from his life from that point to this had supported that theory. He’d never felt love like that. Never the chiming, whispering wind of a sunny day, in an open field with rolling hills and singing tree leaves.

He had only felt the warm, glowing Lumos of his parents’ love for him. The soft light in the darkness that did not flicker out. And though the light was there, so too was the dark.

A hand settled on his thigh and squeezed gently. Draco came back to reality and found the hand belonged to Potter. His green eyes trained on Draco, concern and mild discomfort in them, he smiled awkwardly.

“You all right?” he asked in an undertone. Draco saw a flicker of open fields and bright days before remembering his mother.

“Fine,” he said, and turned back to Narcissa. She had lost little colour in her face from his revelation but none of her composure. She sipped her tea—no evidence she had ever dropped it—and waited for an explanation. But Draco found himself speechless then, with Potter’s comforting hand on his thigh, at afternoon tea with his mother and husband.

Husband.

“You must forgive my earlier rudeness, Draco dear,” Narcissa said when it became apparent Draco would not explain unprompted. “I had not been aware you were courting.” She glanced at Potter here, a fleeting look full of appraisal.

Potter shifted. “It’s not quite what you think, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, and she reached out a delicate hand to him.

“Narcissa, please, Mr. Potter,” she said. 

To which he said, “Er, Narcissa. Please call me Harry, then.” He glanced at Draco, perhaps aware that Draco had not called him by his given name since the bonding. Draco rolled the name around on his tongue but couldn’t quite manage to speak it. “It was sort of—an accident.”

Narcissa set her teacup down and tilted her head just so, eyeing Draco. “Oh?”

Draco raised his hand to show her the ring more clearly. “The rings,” he said, “were from a bonding ritual from centuries ago. Potter brought me the ring to assess in a professional capacity when the bonding—took place.”

Taking her son’s hand, Narcissa studied the ring carefully without touching it. Draco felt her eyes rove over the edges of the stones, into the engraved designs on the shank. There was a moment’s pause, and Narcissa released him, paying no more mind to the ring. Draco studied her carefully.

“Ritual bonding, you say?” she said, turning her attention back to Potter. “Am I to expect we won’t be family for much longer, Harry?”

She’d said it with so much ease it irked Draco. It felt wrong to hear her speak of Potter as family before Draco, himself, could manage it. 

“Well, we’ve been investigating a possible way to reverse the bond, yes,” Potter said, “which is one of the reasons we’ve come to you.”

Folding her hands on the table, Draco noticed the subtle translucence of her skin, the blue veins drawing ley lines down her wrist, and how though she didn’t look older, her age began to show in different ways. Narcissa sat with her back perfectly straight. 

“And how might I be of assistance?” she asked.

Her face was a perfect mask of mild curiosity. Draco’s fingers played over the ring as he watched her. After a moment, he realized there was tea set before him, and he picked it up. The teacup was fine bone china, translucent when held up to the light, like so much else. The rim of the cup was silver-leafed and delicate. The tea was Earl Grey.

“It seems the answer to breaking the bond lies in the hands of the eldest heir to the Black family,” Draco said before taking a calculated sip of his tea. He savoured the liquid on his tongue a moment, hot but not so much so it burned him, and swallowed.

“It seems the problem is solved,” she answered, studying her son. “Ritual bonding magic views only male children as heirs. That would be you, darling.”

“Except it isn’t,” Potter said, ignoring his own tea. “Draco doesn’t seem to have the answer.”

Knowing the question was coming, Draco said, “I’m afraid it’s a form of magical inheritance, Mother. If I were the eldest heir, I would have the key. As I do not,” he paused, as she adjusted the cuff of her robes, “it seems there is another Black heir older than I.” 

“We’d hoped you might be able to tell us who that would be,” Potter said, “or point us in the right direction.”

Narcissa considered a moment, looking down. “My sister, Andromeda, is the eldest of my family,” she said, “and as I understand it, you have a relationship with her. Why not ask her?”

Potter smiled oddly. “Andromeda left her relationship with your family on bad terms.” Draco snorted inwardly. “Her knowledge of what went on within the limits of the Black family ended years ago. But you were close with your family until—”

“Until they were killed,” Narcissa finished for him. Draco felt the tension rise between them all. Like a vise slowly tightened around them all, Draco felt himself forcing breath. 

“Yes,” Potter said, sidestepping the bait. “So you see, you’re our best chance.”

Narcissa dabbed at the side of her mouth with a serviette. With a glance up to the right, she said, “I’m afraid I cannot offer you the answer you need. Draco is the eldest Black heir. If another heir should live, that would be news to me, Mr. Potter.”

Potter leaned back in his seat. He nodded once. “I see. That’s too bad,” he said, and his hand found Draco’s on the table. He laced their fingers together, his fingers playing over the ring on Draco’s hand. “There’s strong evidence these rings may be cursed. I would hate for Draco to come to harm because we failed to dissolve an unintentional union. But I supposed ‘til death do us part’ it’ll have to be.” He turned to Draco then, his words calculated and cut to size. His expression, however, spoke of quiet pleasure and warmth. 

“Cursed?” Narcissa said, her voice pitched a note higher than before.

“Didn’t we say?” Potter said. Draco hummed in agreement.

“These rings were made for Perseus and Helena, Mother,” he informed her. “And you remember the stories.”

Narcissa offered her son a stony look flecked with a shard of fear.

“That coupled with the break-in at Draco’s shop, well,” Potter said, rubbing gentle circles into Draco’s hand. Draco let his eyes flutter shut at the feeling. “That indicates this may have been a targeted attack.”

Narcissa crossed her legs and sat straighter in her chair. “Is that so?” she said. “Well I am terribly sorry I am unable to help. You did mention another reason for coming to me, no?”

Potter nodded, taking a gulp of his now-cold tea. “Yes,” he said, “that’s right. We’ve found surveillance images of a person or creature of interest in regards to these events. It seems a House Elf purchased some of the items shipped to me with the rings.” Narcissa looked steadily at Potter, and Draco studied her in turn. Potter leaned in closer to Draco as he spoke, the warmth of him making it more difficult to Draco to focus. “Draco mentioned you once employed a House Elf named Kertsy; is that correct?”

Narcissa crossed her arms before her on her lap, her chin slightly angled upward. 

“It’s possible. We employed numerous Elves at Malfoy Manor,” she said. She looked up to the right again. “Kertsy, you say?” She paused. “Yes, I believe we did employ her once.” Draco glanced at Potter for a moment, his eyes shining. He felt a drop in his stomach of molten liquid and a spark of something new. Potter was good at his job.

“What were the circumstances of termination?” Potter asked.

“She left a heated iron out where my son was playing,” she said sharply. “Draco was a child; he could have been badly injured. I presented her with clothes and am afraid I do not know what became of her thereafter.”

Potter nodded again and drew Draco’s hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I understand. Protecting your son is of the utmost importance to you. Like I said, I wouldn’t want any harm to come to him.” 

“On that, Mr. Potter, we agree,” she said. Setting her tea and serviette aside, she got to her feet. Smoothing out the creases in her robes, Narcissa inclined her head to them. “I’m afraid I must be going now, Mr. Potter, Draco. I do hope you catch the person responsible.” Then, turning her attention to Draco specifically, she added, “I’ve missed you, darling. You must come to dinner.”

“Of course, Mother,” Draco said. “Safe travels. We’ll speak soon.”

Narcissa smiled and made her way to the door of the teashop. As they watched her retreat, Draco leaned into Potter more fully. Potter continued to press soft kisses to Draco’s knuckles with a smile. Breathing in the feel of Potter peppering him with affection, Draco found himself smiling. The heat in his belly grew, and the pull between them worsened.

“I do believe my mother is hiding something,” Draco said after a moment. Potter hummed his assent. “She’s never lied to me before.”

“I thought highlighting the danger to you might be enough to draw it out of her,” Potter said, taking the time to press each of Draco’s fingertips to his lips. Draco shivered. “Whatever she’s hiding, it’s either very important or very damaging.”

Draco smirked at Potter, licking his lips. “You’re rather brilliant, you know.”

He was rewarded with a dazzling and mischievous smile. “Careful, Draco,” he said, “a few more compliments and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Perish the thought,” Draco said, his smirk turning to a smile. He reached for Potter and pulled him into a kiss, catching his lower lip between his teeth. Potter moaned into the kiss and slipped his fingers into Draco’s hair. At the back of his mind, Draco knew the teashop was not the place for this, that people would stare no matter how private the clientele, but he didn’t care. 

Then a different thought struck him, and he reluctantly broke the kiss.

“She’ll be gone now,” he said, and Potter shook his head. 

“I placed a tracking spell on her when it became clear she wasn’t going to cooperate,” he said. Draco laughed and kissed him again, finding no better way to reward Potter for his cleverness—however unexpected it was. “Shall we go track down your mother?”

Forehead to forehead, Draco and Potter took each other in. Draco licked his lips again, and shut his eyes. “In a minute,” he said, an impish look crossing his face. “I’m not finished with you yet.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Potter follow Narcissa to find answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I posted on my livejournal last week, home issues and health issues and personal issues have completely overwhelmed me the last couple of weeks. I wasn’t able to update as I promised I would, and for that I’m sorry. Things are still a bit insane, but I managed to carve out some time to write. As I mentioned, there are only two chapters left. So, as an apology for the delay and a thank you for your patience, I’m going to post this chapter today, and the final chapter on Thursday of this week.
> 
> So please keep that in mind as you are finishing this chapter. >.>
> 
> Thank you all so much for the reviews and patience as I’m dealing with stuff and finishing this! As always, I hope you enjoy the following, and please let me know if you do! <3
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 14](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/30037.html)

They arrived in a heavily wooded area, surrounded by trees and overgrown brush. It was dark here, darker than it had been when they left the teashop. Draco cast his eyes upward but found only speckles of sky through the dense foliage. The trees grew so close their branches were nearly entwined, reaching ever skyward to find a scrap of sun amid the rest. The ground was soft, squishy beneath Draco’s feet, the earth well watered. The scent of peat, wet earth, and living wood flooded Draco’s senses. The air was close around them, so thick and humid Draco could barely breathe, though he thought having apparated out of an intense snogging session might’ve had something to do with it.

“You all right?” Potter asked, his wand out but unlit.

It took him a moment, his hand seeking out Potter’s, but something struck him as wrong about the forest. But it wasn’t the trees that gave it away. It was the hedges.

“This isn’t a forest,” he said in a whisper. “Not a natural one, anyway. It’s a garden.”

Potter looked about them, searching out Draco’s reasoning. The hedges were overgrown, untended, but there was still a clear line where once they had been trimmed into neat lines. The trees and plants had been left to grow wild, unrestrained by aesthetic, and left the surrounding with an oppressive quality. As though the abandoned place had become feral, angry.

“The grounds of an estate?” Potter asked in an undertone. “Why would your mother come here? Do you recognize anything?” Draco shook his head and pulled out his wand, making to light it. The darkness crept ever inward and a chill ran up his spine. Potter shook his head and tightened his grip on Draco for a moment. “Lumos would be noticed.” 

Draco fell silent, keeping closer to Potter as they made through the plants toward what seemed like a clearing. Beyond the edge of trees and bushes, they found themselves standing on the lawn of a massive and aging manor house. Built in the Victorian style, it drew a crooked line against the horizon, as though an aging courtier bowed and broken by the weight of the sky. None of the lines were clean, none held up to the scrutiny of time, and the colour that once painted the outer walls of the manor flaked and peeled. Several windows stood broken, half-open eyes gazing sightless outward at the world.

As he stared up at the ruined home, he was struck by a lashing of his grief, imagining Malfoy Manor in a similar state. Standing empty, hollowed out of family and meaning and all the symbols of its life, how soon would the Manor turn into this? A portrait of a dying home, a ruined family, broken history.

“Draco?” Potter asked, his hand moving to the small of Draco’s back. The heat of it, pressed there and radiating through the fabric of his robes, brought Draco back. “Do you know this place?”

Eyes narrowed, he tried to see the setting as it once might have been. “I’m not certain. I don’t know I’ve ever been here, but something about it does feel…familiar.”

Potter cast a wordless spell and a rush of magic drew itself around the manor, like a great serpent, then flowed back toward his wand. A miniature model of the home drew itself on the air in front of him, with three tiny pinpricks of light in one room toward the back.

“Three people in that room,” Potter said, swiped away the image with a simple motion. “Your mother and two others. Do you have any idea whose house this is?” Potter looked deep into Draco’s eyes, searching for answers Draco didn’t have. He shook his head, and Potter nodded once. He trusted Draco, and that thought nearly knocked Draco off his feet.

“Stay close to me, behind me, and keep your wand out,” he said. Draco followed after him as Potter crouched low to pass one of the windows.

“I can defend myself, Potter. Perhaps you remember Dueling Club?” he said, more out of defense for his pride than anything else. Potter smiled, but it wasn’t as unreserved as it had been.

“You mean you haven’t advanced at all since second year?” he shot, and Draco flicked his ear when they paused by a door. “However fearsome your talent at conjuring snakes may be, I am an auror, as you so enjoy pointing out, and you are not. Let me do the fighting, if it comes to that.”

Potter swung around a corner, through a door, checking for an ambush, and found nothing. He pressed his back to the wall of the hall and motioned for Draco to join him. Draco slipped up against Potter, and they stood in silence, for a moment, trying to hear over the sound of their breathing.

When Potter gestured they keep going, toward the distant murmur of voices, Draco pondered a question.

“If we’re dividing up responsibilities, and you’re to do the fighting,” he said, “does that mean I’m to do the talking?”

Potter paused, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Well, you do have a talented tongue…”

The comment struck Draco speechless, but his stunned silence was broken by a crash like toppled furniture. Potter paused, pressing a hand flat to Draco’s chest to check the next corner. He glanced at Draco, and their shared look spoke of sharp-edged fear—alert and tense. 

Another crash and they rushed toward the sound, stopping just short of the door standing ajar. Potter and Draco stood flat to the wall, peering sidelong into the room. Narcissa stood barely in view, half-turned from the door. To an untrained eye, she might appear calm in her stance, but Draco recognize the radiating anxiety, the cold chisel of her shoulders, the pin-straightness of her spine; she’d had this same posture when Voldemort occupied their home. She was terrified.

“Cygnus, please,” she said, her tone distant, almost bored. “Tantrums are for children. You were raised to display more decorum.”

A shuffling sound preceded the entrance of a House-Elf. Adorned in a quilted patchwork garment, Kertsy crossed their line of sight, offering something to Narcissa. She refused with a gesture, never looking down, and the House-Elf passed out of sight to the other side of the room.

“My apologies for the outburst,” a man’s voice said. There was little about the voice that bore any kind of distinction. It sounded average in almost every way, except that the expression didn’t fit. It was as though the man was unaccustomed to speaking courteously, or speaking at all. As though the words were an awkward fit for his tongue. “You know this time of year is difficult for me, what with the anniversary approaching…”

Narcissa’s posture shifted slightly, and Draco felt torn between the urge to rush in and help her and to run away and hide. The shift was subtle but spoke volumes to his younger self. It was the posture he’d always feared the moment he did something wrong. It meant Mother was angry, and between her and Lucius, Draco always feared his mother’s anger more than his father’s. Lucius was harsh, stern. But if Narcissa was angry, it meant Draco had done something near unforgiveable.

“You need to tell me the truth,” she said, every word punctuated by her coldness. “Where did you get the ring?”

Draco felt his mouth drop slightly. He glanced at Potter, whose hand splayed down Draco’s front in an effort to calm him. Potter’s attention was focused on the conversation.

“I don’t know what you—”

“Do _not_ lie to me, Cygnus,” she said, and the frigid words drenched him in a cold sweat. Who was she talking to? Who was Cygnus? The only man by that name Draco had ever known had been his grandfather—“You spent years reading and rereading all the family history books you could get your hands on. You would know that ring by sight in an instant, and you would know all the history attached to it. Where did you get it?”

There was a silence, broken only by the shuffling of Kertsy as she moved about the room, and Cygnus answered, “I bought it off a thief. Some fool name of Mundungus Fletcher. He had the nerve to claim he’d found the ring and other things he was selling in an estate sale, but I knew the truth. He’d stolen it all—only way he could have gotten his hands on so many Black family artifacts. I had to reclaim them.” There was a haughtiness to his voice, then, that sounded unfounded. “I have the rest of the items here,” he added, a tinge of desperation in his words. He wanted nothing more than to please her. Draco felt bile rising in his throat.

Narcissa was quiet a moment, and Draco felt the confusion swirling into crystals in his mind. He was on the cusp of clarity but couldn’t push through.

“But you sent the ring to Harry Potter,” she said. “You didn’t return it to me, to the family. You handed it over to one who has already claimed ownership of my family’s birthright. Why would you do that to me, Cygnus? What have I done to warrant that kind of betrayal?” Narcissa’s voice took on a wounded, pained quality, which Draco was also familiar with. It cut to the core in order to elicit shame. It was the worst punishment his mother had to offer—the knowledge that he had disappointed, betrayed her. 

“No! Don’t you see?” Cygnus said, and Potter’s hand held his wand as a trap ready to be triggered. A hair’s touch could snap him into action. “I did this because Potter has stolen so much from you! The ring is cursed, and if Potter put it on, he would be cursed too!”

“Nonsense,” Narcissa said. “The curse is superstition. Perseus and Helena were murdered by a werewolf, not a curse.”

Draco nearly breathed a sigh of relief, hearing the notion dismissed so easily, but Cygnus wasn’t finished yet. 

“But it is cursed! Just not the way everyone thinks!” Potter tightened his grip on his wand and looked back at Draco, barely breathing. Draco swallowed hard and inched closer, wand ready. “The rune magic inlaid into the ring demands that it only be used on a couple whose union is true love. If any enter into the bonding who do not meet that criteria, the ring dooms them to violent deaths. It was a detail the Malfoys and Peverells insisted upon. To ensure the union was as pure as Perseus and Helena claimed. They still didn’t trust each other.” He paused, sounding more desperate than ever. “That’s why I sent it to Potter. I knew he’d have to investigate an anonymous package like that, and he’d take it to some jeweler to get information and if either of them put it on, it would seal him into a bond destined to destroy him! Everyone knows his true love was the blood-traitor Weasley girl. When she left him for someone else, he dissolved into meaningless relationships with whoever crossed his path. It was a perfect plan!”

Potter’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. Draco let his eyes draw the line of Potter’s face and neck, wondering how this man, this Cygnus, knew so much about him. 

“Potter didn’t take the ring to any jeweler,” Narcissa said, counting her words. “He took it to the only jeweler on whom the magic would have worked—my son. He took the ring to Draco. But given how much you seem to know about Potter and the ring, you must have known he would.” A pregnant silence followed, then, “After all I’ve done for you—after all I’ve given—you intended to kill Draco.”

“Mother, please!” Cygnus cried, and Draco’s entire body froze, his muscles contracting until he felt as though he was stone. He saw nothing at all before his eyes, nothing but the word _Mother_ and wondered at its meaning.

_Perhaps there is another Black, older than you, still out there._

Perseus’s words echoed in Draco’s mind, but there was no sense to them. Not really, not even now.

“I’ve told you not to call me that,” Narcissa said. “I am not your mother.”

Draco felt cold. 

“More a mother to me than mine ever was,” Cygnus said, and the man suddenly came into view, grasping at Narcissa’s hands, on his knees in supplication. “You raised me, named me for your father; you gave me life when she would take it away.”

“You will not speak of my sister that way,” Narcissa snapped, and everything became clear. The Victorian Manor, rendered in all its original glory, painted itself in Draco’s mind. He had seen it before, but very young and only once. 

“The Lestrange Estate,” Draco murmured, but he’d spoken too loud.

“Who’s there?” Cygnus snapped, and suddenly he spun Narcissa into his grasp, using her as a shield, a knife to her throat. 

Potter surged through the doorway, wand out, and Draco followed him. The man holding his mother captive was the same man in the image at Draco’s shop. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he could see it now—the resemblance to his Aunt Bella. The heavily lidded eyes, the wild, dark hair. Even the strange madness that lingered behind every expression was the same.

“Let her go,” Potter said, his wand trained on Cygnus. The room had long since been a kitchen of sorts. Gutted of most of its contents, rough-edged piping protruded from the walls in one area, where there once had been a sink. On the other side, a fire blazed in a cracked and broken hearth. The stone and bricks and wood were jagged in places, like the gruesome teeth of a misshapen monster. The floor was littered with glass and broken china.

“You brought them here?” Cygnus said, ignoring Potter. “Why would you bring them here, Mother?”

“Draco is my only son,” she said, still affecting a look of controlled calm. But the knife at her neck nicked skin, and beads of red appeared on her pale skin. 

“Mistress!” Kertsy cried, frozen without orders and unsure of how to proceed.

“No! He is a disgrace to the Malfoy name!” Cygnus said. “Yes, I wanted him dead. He and Potter both. They stole my inheritance, my birthright as the eldest Black child! I should have Grimmauld Place; I should have the Malfoy fortune. I’m a more devoted son than he ever was. Why else would you have given me your father’s name?”

“Put down the knife,” Potter said, cutting Cygnus off. Draco itched to cast a spell, to use Potter’s favourite disarming charm, but it was too risky. This close, the knife could easily cut Narcissa’s throat before flying away. “You haven’t done any real damage yet. You can still walk away from this, Cygnus. No one needs to get hurt.”

Draco wanted to argue using his mother as a human shield and ransacking his place of business should definitely count as ‘real damage,’ but he decided, for once, he’d best leave the talking to Potter. 

“Master Cygnus must let Mistress go!” Kertsy demanded, and Draco was nearly stunned out of focus. A House-Elf never spoke that way to someone they considered a Master. Except, on occasion, when dealing with misbehaving children.

_So she didn’t dismiss Kertsy. She sent her to raise Aunt Bella’s son._ Thoughts spun in Draco’s mind as he hovered in the stand-off between all different kinds of family. 

“You think your aim is that good, Potter?” Cygnus taunted, but Potter showed no sign of swaying. “You think since the Dark Lord’s fall you can rule the wizarding world. But you can’t. You’re just a dirty half-blood.”

“Do you really want to hurt her, Cygnus?” Potter asked, trying to negotiate with a lunatic. “You said it yourself. She’s your mother. Why would you want to harm your mother? She named you for her father. That’s an important mantle. Why would she do that if she didn’t love you?”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” he said with a snarl. “But I will if you don’t lower your wands. Mother understands. I must do whatever it takes to fight half-bloods and blood traitors.” Then, he pulled out the dragonstone from somewhere behind him. “I’ll prove it

“I’ll tell you why I named you Cygnus,” Narcissa interrupted, eyes wide as she stared at Draco. Draco fought hard not to curse him where he stood, knowing his mother’s life was at stake. But the sliver of betrayal in his heart slowly grew. How could she have lied to him his whole life? “When I saw you, you were just a little thing. So small and helpless. I was already pregnant with Draco then. And then my sister cast her spell and decided to kill you, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t let you die. I thought, the magic was still new, still unproven. Perhaps it was wrong. I thought maybe you’d grow from that weak little baby into a beautiful swan.” One tear fell down Narcissa’s cheek, and she shut her eyes before she added, “I was wrong.”

Narcissa tried to jab at Cygnus with her wand, but he caught her hand and held the blade closer to her throat. He took the wand from her hand, and Draco lunged, but Potter stopped him. In the struggle, a chain glinted around Cygnus’s neck, and the dragonstone slipped out of his shirt, inexpertly strung like a pendant. Everything crystallized for Draco—the drangonstone, the tapestry, aunt Bella—he understood.

“You don’t mean that, Mother,” he said, fury shining in his eyes. “I know you don’t.”

“Of course she does,” Draco said, affecting the sneer that drove Potter mad in school. “It was a naïve mistake of her youth, when she took you in. But this is the reality. After all, how could any respectable pureblood ever love a squib?”

Potter sought out Draco with his body, his eyes never leaving Cygnus. Draco pressed his shoulder to Potter’s to reassure him he knew what he was doing.

“I am not a squib!” he barked. “Do you know what makes a squib? Total lack of magical ability. Do you know what counts as a squib to the magical assessments done by places like Hogwarts, or like the spell _Bellatrix_ did when I was born? _Minimal_ magical ability. I just barely failed the test, and she tried to murder me. Her own flesh and blood!”

Draco pulled a face and looked down his nose at Cygnus. “Some magic but not enough to use a wand?” Draco snorted and added in a sing-song voice. “Squib.”

“Laugh all you want, cousin.” He spat the word as though it was dung. “But not for long. Admiring my drangonstone were you?”

“My dragonstone, you mean,” Draco said. His eyes met his mother’s for a moment, then he smiled placidly. “So you think that’ll amplify your abilities enough to use a wand and make you a real wizard.” Draco clapped slowly, derisively. “Why then the knife? No real pureblood would _ever_ stoop to using a blade when they had magic at their disposal.” With feigned surprise, Draco tilted his head. “Other than dear aunt Bella, anyway. I suppose I’m beginning to see the resemblance now. She was a nutter as well. No regard for family at all. Like mother like son.”

“She’s _not_ my mother!” he snapped, his words edged in hysteria. 

“Then drop the knife and face me like a wizard!” Draco said, jerking forward in taunt. “But you won’t. You’re nothing but a cowardly squib!”

“No!” he screamed, and threw Narcissa aside, holding her wand aloft. The dragonstone glowed at his neck, and for a split second, they all watched, wondering if it would work. Then everything happened at once.

Potter disarmed Cygnus’s knife hand. Kertsy rushed to Narcissa’s aid as Draco cast a stunning charm at Cygnus, accidentally taking the full-force of the spell. The House-Elf fell limp on the ground, but by now Cygnus had maximized his use of the dragonstone. It glowed more brightly than anything Draco had ever seen, blinding them all for a moment—just long enough for Cygnus to unleash the magic.

But he wasn’t trained, had no experience with spells, and the dragonstone was unpredictable. It rocked his body with the force of all the meager magic Cygnus possessed and cast it out in one massive, targeted wave. 

Directly at Potter.

Without time to cast anything, Draco threw himself at Potter, pushing him out of the line of the spell, and catching the bulk of the unrestrained magic to the chest. Without a specific purpose or spell, the magic collided with Draco like ten bludgers at once, knocking him violently back. He was swept off his feet and straight into the jagged hearth to one side. The wind knocked out of him, Draco struggled to breathe.

Potter cast a stunning charm at Cygnus, but it hit the centre of the pulsing dragonstone. The gem shattered, expelling all the power of an amplified stunner into Cygnus’s chest. Instead of falling unconscious, he fell down dead.

Narcissa and Potter both looked over to Draco. Blood drained from Potter’s face.

“Draco!” Narcissa cried, and Potter rushed to his side. Draco struggled to breathe, air still not filling his lungs despite his efforts. Instead he felt fluid in his throat, warm with a metal tang.

He coughed once, liquid spilling from his mouth. Pulling himself off the wall, he felt as though his body were not his own—too heavy, too slow, and full of pain. Draco brought a hand to his mouth and found the liquid at his lips was blood. He choked on it and collapsed, his eyes seeking out Potter’s.

“Draco, stay with me,” Potter said, casting charm after charm to little avail. “Fuck, I don’t know the right one, Draco, talk to me!” Potter gripped his shoulders and pulled Draco toward him. He cradled Draco’s head, trying every spell he had in his arsenal. None of the magic seemed to reach Draco. He didn’t feel the usual wave of warm, or the soft cushioning that eased pain. He felt only cold, suddenly. Cold along with the stark and acute sensation of every grain of dust beneath him, all the pricks of glass and china, the slickness of the blood on his fingers, the roughness of Potter’s hands against his face, the warmth of Potter’s tears. “Why did you do that? I told you to let me do the fighting.”

“Had to,” Draco said, barely managing to push out the words. Narcissa was at his side now too, trying her own spells but still failing. She held Draco’s hand and whispered constant apologies, but he could barely hear them. He only heard Potter. “Bond demands I do—whatever I can—to protect you…”

“I need to get you to St Mungo’s; you’ve got to stay with me,” Potter said, shaking his head and smoothing away the hair from Draco’s face. “You’ll be fine. You’re too stubborn to die on me here, so steel yourself. I’m going to take you.”

But Draco could barely feel anything below his waist, and there was a set of rolling clouds along the edges of his vision. 

“Can’t apparate,” he coughed. “Not as stubborn as you, apparently.” Potter laughed, despite himself, and cradled Draco tighter. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, “I need you to stay with me. I need you…”

He pressed his lips to Draco’s forehead, tears splashing against Draco’s face. 

“S’okay, Harry,” Draco said, and Potter shook slightly. “You—heard Cygnus. Bond is for—true—love only. Just—wasn’t—meant to be…”

The clouds swirled in closer as Potter rocked Draco back and forth. His mother sobbed to one side, but the last thing Draco heard were Potter’s words.

“But Draco… it is.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! I had a lot of fun writing this, between the mess of stress in my life, and I just wanted to say thank you all for reading, reviewing, and leaving kudos! I really appreciate hearing from you and all your patience as I ease my way back into fandom. :) I have a bunch more fic ideas, a fest in the works, and maybe even some fanart. We’ll see!
> 
> I hope this ending was worth the wait! Worth it and satisfying, of course. ;) Please enjoy and let me know if you did! <3 
> 
> On LJ: [Chapter 15](http://daftfear.livejournal.com/30394.html)

Everything was white and everything was clean and everything was sterile. Nothing hurt. No pain, no questions, no doubt. For a moment, there were no memories, no regrets. Peace like childhood, like early dreams of flying and starlight, filled him. It shone through him, through the skin of him, and hollowed out his core. He saw everything and nothing, and the path ahead was clear. For one brilliant moment, nothing mattered.

Then the light faded, weakened in the face of a subtle shadow. The world turned from white to grey, dipped in ink and bleeding from the corners of his vision. With the shadows, questions returned—doubt and wonder and confusion. They rose in him, an unsettling in the skin in the dark of night, but did not breach the surface. Still there was the calm, despite the questions. 

The pain did not return. Not as he expected. No sharp emergence of hurt, no wash of fire or ice across his nerves. No shuddering sense of being again. He floated above that.

A soft beeping is what did it—brought him back into that grey place.

Cracking his eyes open, as though they’d been closed for centuries, Draco saw the steadily broken line shining over his chest. The line beeped at every break, at every drop and rise—spikes drawing the line of life. Beneath the line, there were other symbols hovering as if in a pale mist. Punctuated by acronyms and incomplete words, they monitored aspects of him he’d never been aware of. Things he never thought about before.

He watched the breaking line move, surveyed the gently shifting symbols and charts hovering above his chest. For hours it seemed, he watched it all, without moving. But he wasn’t sure what time was, just then. Time had not yet returned to him.

Draco breathed, slowly, in and out, as though remembering how. Feeling the air travel inward and out, he watched the charts and breathed. Then he licked his lips, felt them smooth, and wondered how. The haze that filled his head lessened slowly, the mist parting to allow clarity space.

The room was darkened, but grey with light from beyond the door. There was a seat next to a small table opposite him, and a small chest of drawers to his left, serving as a nightstand. The curtains in the window were drawn closed. Beyond them, the window was black. Swallowing once, twice, trying to piece things together, Draco raised a hand to his chest. He found himself naked beneath white sheets, his senses not quite fully wakened. As the fog cleared, he remembered more and more. 

Flashes of light and a powerful strike. Tears and pain and a breathlessness that wouldn’t go away. Then nothing.

Then nothing.

Draco tried to reach around himself, then, a faster movement than he expected to manage, but couldn’t quite reach where he was aiming. As he moved, he felt no jarring tug, no awkwardness or pain. It was then he noticed the figure curled on the sofa to his right.

Potter, half-hidden beneath a cloak, was asleep next to Draco. Seeing him, the fog disappeared, and a yearning grew in Draco’s belly. He reached out without thinking, then pulled his hand back and stared at his ring finger.

The ring was gone, no trace of it left. His hand felt remarkably wrong. Thumb playing over the empty spot on his finger, Draco wondered how something could have become part of him so quickly.

There was a shuffling, a soft groan, and then—

“You’re awake,” Potter said, breathless. Draco turned, but Potter was already moving. Without hesitation, he threw himself at Draco and pulled him into a kiss. Their lips fitted together with a sigh and a laugh, and Potter kissed him as desperately as a dying man searches for sky. 

The pull in his belly stirred and tugged, and Draco drew Potter closer, kissing him deeply and wantonly. It took long minutes before either of them pulled back, and Draco wasn’t sure which of them did.

Potter’s eyes were alight with joy, his face broken into a wide grin. He brushed a thumb over Draco’s cheek and pressed their foreheads together with a laugh.

“You bloody git,” Potter said, and sat back on Draco’s bed. Watching him, feeling him close, Draco felt as though he was floating again, filled with light. But his fingers found the spot from the missing ring again, and he faltered.

“The ring is gone,” he said after a moment, his voice breathy but not hoarse. Potter glanced down and nodded once. “How—what—”

Drawing away slightly, Potter looked at his own hands.

“Do you know what happened?” he asked. Draco remembered the pain, though he didn’t feel it now.

“We fought Cygnus,” he said slowly, “and—I was injured.”

Potter shook his head, looking pained at Draco. “You weren’t injured, Draco. You died.”

Some of the doubt, the questions, and the regrets surfaced momentarily, piercing the vibrating haze of his painlessness. Spells and potions, he thought, must be keeping him feeling well.

“I died,” he said more than asked, eyes vacant.

“For sixty-seven seconds,” Potter said. Draco blinked and focused on Potter, eyebrows furrowed. “Once you were—well, it’s easier to apparate with a—than with a badly injured person. I figured that much out after fourth year. I got you to hospital, and the healers did the rest. A non-magical injury like the one you suffered is much easier to repair than spell damage. And because you died as a result of that, rather than a Killing Curse or something of the like… well, they brought you back quickly enough.” Potter swallowed hard, as though he had trouble. “They had you in magical sleep to recover properly, said you should be all right. Your mother was here as well, but visiting hours ended, and they forced her to leave. But me, well…I’m…” He made a vague motion toward himself.

“I died,” Draco said again, his hands playing on his empty ring-finger. “And the bond—”

Potter nodded slowly. “Turns out the easiest way to break a bonding spell is for one or both parties to die,” he said, but his smile bore no humour. His hands gripped the sheets by Draco’s leg, but he seemed afraid to reach out for Draco himself again. 

“Then it’s done? We aren’t ma—bonded, anymore?” he asked, voice hitching awkwardly. The yearning in his stomach spun and built, and Draco could not understand. Potter nodded to him, and Draco blurted, “then why do I still feel this way?”

Potter’s lips parted, his eyes searching Draco’s. “What?”

“I still want you,” he said, the urge to reach out and grab Potter rising with every moment, every frustrating second Potter refused to touch him. “I feel like I _need_ you. The way I did when we were bonded. But I shouldn’t. It should be gone, this feeling.”

Potter’s jaw tightened and released, a hard line shifting to softer edges.

“Unless,” he said, pausing to flatten his hand to the mattress, his fingers barely touching Draco’s leg, “it’s real. This is really how you feel.”

The gazing heat of Potter’s fingertips against Draco’s thigh through the sheets was driving him mad. He felt himself flush with the need of him, and disbelieving his own actions, he reached out and brushed his fingers against Potter’s lower lip. Potter leaned into the motion.

“And you?” Draco said, unable to manage more than a whisper.

Potter’s green eyes met Draco’s, the irises bright as spell magic and full of the same promise. 

“I’ve already told you,” he said, “you are what I want. It wasn’t always the bond talking.”

They held each other’s gaze a moment, caught in the balance of the moment, and then Draco broke it.

He buried his fingers in Harry’s hair and drew him in for a kiss. Harry exhaled a sound of relief into the kiss, his lips sucking at Draco’s, his hands cupping Draco’s head. Harry pulled him in, breathed him in, and demanded more. Draco slid his tongue passed Harry’s lips, tasting him as he hadn’t before. He wanted to feel everything again, anew, without the lens of the bond clouding reality. He wanted to know Harry inside and out, to draw him up along the crest of pleasure and dive down into it with him.

The heat grew again, the pull taught as a wire between them, urging them closer. Draco slid his hands down Harry’s front and tugged at the toggles of his robes, ripping them from his body. Harry shimmied out of the robes, unbuckling his own belt and trousers. He cast them aside, pants and all, and straddled Draco atop the sheets. Draco moaned and dragged Potter back into a kiss, his entire body aflame with sensation.

The bed creaked, and a shadow passed across the light under the door. They both froze, eyes wide and staring at each other. The sound of healers passing dissipated, but it reminded Draco where they were.

Harry’s eyes flashed between Draco’s and the door, then he pulled his wand from his discarded robes and began casting spells. After a moment he put the wand aside with a grin and pulled Draco up as he leaned back.

“A few privacy wards,” he explained, mouth open and barely an inch from Draco’s. His hands roved down Draco’s chest and pulled the sheets away from his waist, exposing his erection. He hissed as the cool air passed over him and nibbled at Harry’s lips. 

“Potter,” he said in a half-accusatory manner. Harry smirked in a way almost reminiscent of Draco.

“No more interruptions,” he said. “No more excuses.”

Draco splayed a hand at Harry’s lower back and pushed him forward until their hips met, their erections pressed together. Harry groaned and bucked his hips, creating an almost painful friction that set Draco alight. 

Sucking at Harry’s lower lip, Draco guided Harry’s movements against him, arcing upward into Harry’s thrusts when he could. Hands roving down Draco’s back, Harry found the place where Draco had been impaled. His fingertips kneaded over the area, massaging the smooth skin. Eyes shut from the pleasure, Draco moaned and angled his head back. Harry leaned in and licked a thick strip down Draco’s neck, stopping to suck on his collarbone. 

Draco brought his hand to their erections, stroking them both in awkward, uneven motions, but Harry didn’t seem to mind. He continued, Harry thrusting into his strokes, until the skin stung with sensation. Then Harry took Draco’s wrist, and staring into Draco’s half-lidded eyes, he placed Draco’s hand at his arse and guided him toward his goal.

Fingers pressed tentatively where Harry placed them, Draco paused, and search Harry’s eyes. 

“I want _you_ ,” Harry said, his words husky and hot against Draco’s skin. He leaned sideways a moment and pulled a small tube out of his trousers before handing it to Draco. “Now.”

Draco eyed the tube of lube a moment, one eyebrow cocked, a smirk drawing itself on his lips. Harry didn’t let him speak, only captured his mouth again and bucked against Draco again.

Draco coated his fingers quickly and carefully, sliding his other hand down Harry’s arse and kneading the skin. Harry moaned and kissed him more roughly, the urgency building. Draco pressed the tip of his slicked finger into Potter, slowly, and then further in. Harry moaned again, his lips parted, his teeth gritted. Draco watched as Harry’s head fell back the further in he pushed. The gasping moans Harry made as he let Draco’s fingers in, one more, then another, were driving Draco mad. His cock pulsed, harder than he thought he’d ever been, as he stretched Harry.

Harry glanced down as he lifted himself off Draco’s fingers and sat back down, fucking himself as Draco watched. His eyes dark with lust and pleasure, he smirked at Draco and gyrated more boldly, his hands finding Draco’s cock to stroke it. 

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry said, and Draco swallowed hard. 

“You,” he breathed, and Harry’s lips pulled into a mischievous smile. 

“Why?” he demanded, one hand fisting Draco’s hair. He thrust against Draco’s fingers more determinately. 

“I need you,” Draco said, mouth pressed open and wet to Harry’s chest and neck. “I fucking need you; I love you.”

Potter gasped a moan and pulled himself off Draco’s fingers and yanking his head back to kiss him. He slid his tongue into Draco’s mouth and readjusted his position, pressing their bodies tightly together. Harry brought his hand around himself, behind, and grasped Draco’s cock. He held himself hovering above the head, eyes boring into Draco.

“Then fucking take me,” he ordered, and pushed down on Draco’s cock, sheathing it in one rough moment. They both cried out, and Harry pressed his forehead to Draco’s, his eyes screwed shut, his jaw tight.

Draco ran one hand up Harry’s back, soothing him and smoothing away the discomfort. Harry hummed, and his muscles shifted. He lifted himself and thrust down again, this time more fluidly. Draco let him find a pace, then fell into it, bucking upward, hips colliding with Harry’s arse with every rise and fall.

The feel of Harry, completely surrounding him and sucking him inward, pushed Draco to the edge faster than he wanted. He paused and wrapped his fingers around Harry’s cock, stroking with the remaining lube and thrusting to punctuate the strokes. 

“Yes, Draco, fuck yes,” Harry said, bobbing up and down on Draco’s erection. He threw his head back again, his eyes shut, his glasses partially askew, and he looked lost and ruined and gorgeous in every way possible. 

Draco twisted as he pulled up on Harry’s erection, urging him to climax, needing it more than he needed air. He sucked at Harry’s chest, leaving his scorching skin raw and red. His thrusting grew deeper, harder, more erratic, and with every push Harry cried out.

“Fuck, Draco, ye—” Harry said, nails raking down Draco’s back, and suddenly he stopped, his entire body shuddering, taught and motionless as he came. Jets of thick, sticky liquid splattered Draco’s chest, and he thrust in again, harder and faster, until he met the final upswing and tumbled into release. He moaned, gripping Harry’s legs, as Harry held him tight.

Finally, spent and exhausted, Draco collapsed back onto his bed, Harry falling on top of him. They lay panting, holding each other, for minutes. After a time, Harry shifted off to Draco’s side, chest heaving against him. They were messy and sticky and covered in each other’s come, but Draco didn’t care. Harry was lying against him, willingly sated. 

“Fuck,” Harry said after a while. “It’s nearly half-seven.” He propped himself up to check something, and Draco let his eyes run down the length of Harry’s naked body. Catching him in the act, Harry grinned and kissed Draco again. “No more of that right now. You’ll be having visitors soon.”

“I died,” Draco said, running a hand up Harry’s thigh. “In fact, this is practically my death bed. I can’t possibly see visitors. I need more attending to.”

An eyebrow cocked, Harry laughed, “shall I call the healers then?”

“You mean you aren’t a healer?” Draco asked in mock surprise. “I thought you must work here now, seeing as your career as an auror had to be at an end. You were nearly killed by a squib and saved by a simple jeweler, were you not?”

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed in confusion. “Which fight were you at? I don’t remember ever being in mortal danger. In fact, I distinctly remember being interrupted by an idiot jeweler as I was trying to save the day.”

“Simple jeweler, not idiot, get it right,” Draco said, and Harry laughed and kissed him.

“No,” he said, “nothing is every simple when it comes to you, Draco Malfoy.”

Harry kissed him again, and Draco held him there in a slow, languorous embrace. Harry exhaled in pleasure and pulled away.

“No time! Guests,” he said by way of explanation. 

“Mother won’t mind,” he said, not really believing it as he said it. Harry shot him a look and shook his head.

“Not your mother,” he said. Then with a wicked smile, he explained, “I promised Teddy he could visit you once you woke up. He was unnaturally excited to discover he has a cousin—wouldn’t believe a word I said when I tried to explain how much of a prat you are.” 

“Teddy?” Draco said, sitting up slightly, caught between excitement and terror. “As in Aunt Andromeda’s grandson?”

Harry smiled. “As a five-star auror, I deduced it might be a good surprise for when you were back on your feet. I hope you’re ready for this. Once he sees you, he won’t want to give you up.” Harry’s eyes travelled the length of Draco’s body, and he said with a hum, “I know the feeling.”

Mouth pulled into a smirk, Draco tried to focus on the possibility of having family again. But the thought of the last unexpected cousin he’d met filled him with doubt.

“Do they know about what happened?” he asked. “About the ring and the bond and Cygnus and my—dying?”

Harry considered him. “I explained you were badly hurt to Teddy, and that I’d just gotten to know you again and thought you’d get on well together.” He paused. “Andromeda knows more. She was understandably hesitant, but I arranged a meeting between her and your mother a couple days ago. She can tell you more about that, though.” He laughed. “You’re going to have more family than you know what to do with soon.” Draco felt a pang of alarm mingled with excitement at the thought. The empty places in his heart began to fill with people he never thought he’d have, and at the centre of that was Harry. “Oh, that reminds me.”

He reached into his trousers and plucked out a red velvet box. Harry handed it to Draco without explanation, but Draco thought he knew what it was. As he opened the box, the ruby and emerald ring sparkled back at him. The low light of the morning filtered in through the thin curtains and caught in the gems. 

“It survived?” Draco asked. 

“Apparently, the true-love’s bond remains unfulfilled,” Harry said, the words not quite his own. “So the ring’s magic fell dormant again.”

Draco felt a spark in his chest at Harry’s words. He caught Harry’s eye.

“True love’s bond?” Harry smiled and nodded.

“So it seems,” he said. “It’s technically evidence, but they released it to me. I thought maybe you could hold on to it.” There was a glimmer of promise in his eyes. “I reckon it’ll come in handy sometime soon.”

Lips parted, Draco searched Harry’s face for a lie and found none. 

“Are you proposing to me, Potter?” he asked with a smirk. Harry’s eyes crinkled at the edges from his smile, the hint of a challenge in his expression.

“Are you accepting, Malfoy?”

Draco only smiled wider and pulled Harry into a kiss. 

\---END---


End file.
